


Motherless

by Adam2810



Series: Animorphs Series Continuation [1]
Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Animorphs - Freeform, Army, Background - Freeform, Backstory, Bullying, Gen, Growing Up, Lessons, Masculinity, Military, Military Training, Spy - Freeform, Upbringing, War, Yeerks, andalite, impressionable - Freeform, motherless, santorelli - Freeform, sergeant santorelli - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2019-10-15 15:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adam2810/pseuds/Adam2810
Summary: Sergeant Santorelli is a US Army Ranger. Gifted with the Andalite technology to morph, he will join Jake Berenson on The Rachel on the journey to Kelbrid Space.But why him? How did he get there?This is the story of the soldier who won the Secret War.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**I**

   Luke was a worm. A weedy little maggot who would scuttle down the corridors on thimble legs, forever hunched over like a dog sniffing the floor for piles of shit left by alphas he couldn’t hope to avoid. His squirrely little face and his ears like wing-mirrors were mating calls to a clenched fist, and he sure was no virgin to it. Even his voice… that stuttering, whiny mumble that nobody cared to hear, that couldn’t win over a small crowd of disinterested mice, and the way he’d always, _always_ be breathing through his mouth… I could remember the one time he sat behind me in class, and all I could hear was the popping of the bubbles of saliva as he’d inhale like a rusty vent. I could have just turned and kicked him in the shin, but I was already on a tightrope with Ms Thorpe. Even though Ms Thorpe disliked the weasel as much as anybody else.

   And then there was the stare. The blank stare of a kid who didn’t have a fucking idea what was going on. The blank stare of fear because everybody around him was bigger and better, and he would have to watch every step and every movement, so that he didn’t so much as scrape against somebody’s backpack and draw attention to his worthless self. If only he didn’t smell of damp, sweaty clothing, he might get away with it every-so-often.

   We called him Puke. We found it funny how he would twitch every time we said it. The name spread like a wildfire through the school, to the point where I even overheard teachers saying it. He went by other names as well: Dweeb, Cockroach boy, Shit stain, Who’s-that-weed. Four-eyes.

   Yeah, you could tell those specs from a mile away. Big, ugly red frame, with thick lenses that made his eyes all buggy. It only made the whole picture of him worse.

   The kid was a total target. He was a practise shot for the rest of us, and as he past us in the school yard on a Monday morning, he knew that he was in for it later on. It was the first day back from Summer break, and we had to find _some_ way of making the first week bearable.

   “Hey Puke!” Dunstan called, following a blaring whistle. “Are those new specs?! They look bigger than normal!”

   The kid barely acknowledged us with a look and skulked past a wall and out of sight. My group of four was at the far boundary of the school yard, leant up against the big brick wall that looked over the fence and the main gate that led towards the town. The other kids were dripping in, groups of two or three at a time. They were mostly smaller than us. We were among the largest in the school, despite only being in eighth grade, and many of them would avoid eye contact. Despite that, we were well-respected. Even by some of the teachers. Most of the time.

   It was me, Dunstan, Bobby and Ed. We’d known each other since kindergarten and through competitiveness had risen to the top of the pile. We weren’t smarter than the other kids, for sure, but we were stronger than them all. During school hours we found it difficult to pay attention, especially in all those boring maths classes, science classes, whatever… We loved sports though, and after school we’d use the gymnasium for a couple hours in a contest of no mercy. The winner was crowned, and those losers were punished accordingly.

   “What a dweeb…” Dunstan uttered about a passing kid, just loud enough for him to hear.

   “Hey, you know what? That reminds me of somethin’,” I said. “You doing the forfeit?”

   Dunstan dipped his round, short-black-haired head in annoyance. “Yeah.”

   Bobby, who had already started to sprout the beginnings of a golden beard – though entirely patchy – laughed gruffly. “No way, man! You wearin’ your mama’s underwear?!”

   Dunstan rolled his eyes and turned so that no passing eyes could witness. He used both hands, one tugging downwards at the rim of his pants and the other pulling to reveal a bright pink, flowery set of women’s’ underwear. It set the rest of us into hysterics, and his cheeks to turn almost as pink as the garment he was compelled to don.

   “Should teach you for bein’ such a big girl.” Ed suggested. He was the smallest of us all, with a mop of dirt-colored hair. Smallest in height, yeah, but the guy was shaped like a square. Kid was bulked to the max. With help from a constant diet of protein shakes…

   “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Dunstan grumbled. “Won’t be me tomorrow! And it won’t be yer mommy’s underwear. I’m gonna make you wear that homeless guy’s boots.”

   “Aw, man,” I groaned. “I bet they’re soaked with piss. Poor guy lives in a dumpster.”

   “Guy _looks_ like a dumpster.” Bobby added.

   “You can’t talk about Santorelli’s best friend like that!” Ed defended.

   I narrowed my eyes at him in disbelief. “What do you mean by _best friend_?!”

   “Dude, we all saw you giving the guy your lunch!”

   “Wasn’t _my_ lunch!” I replied, deliberately towering over him. “That was Puke’s lunch!”

   Dunstan snorted a laugh. “Who do you think you are? Robin Hood?”

   “Guy looked hungry!” I said. “Might as well take from the weedy rich kid and give him somethin’ tastier than rat shit.”

   “Speaking of somethin’ nice…” Bobby said with a sly grin. He reached into his burgundy jacket pocket, and once we’d gathered to block prying eyes, he pulled out the brand new box of cigarettes, coupled with an cracked red lighter. “Dad got me these.”

   “I’m down with that.” I said.

   “We got time,” Ed added. “Let’s get to the trees.”

   Bobby hid the box back in his jacket, and the four of us trudged casually towards the gate, moving opposite to the groups that flooded into the school yard. They parted like the red sea, as they always did. Except for Candy and her girls, who giggled and winked as we passed. They were the cheerleaders. We often mingled after football practise.

   So through the school gate we went, and then we took a shallow left down a short bank and into the first of a long landscape of trees. We were well hidden, just a few metres after entering. The place was dark and a bit gloomy, and the ground was like a garbage dump, but it was much better than sitting in class. I kicked at a rusty, crushed beer can like it was a soccer ball, and leaned against the tree in its place. Bobby distributed the cigarettes, and the lighter was passed around the circle we’d formed. I flicked at the lighter once, twice, and then the tiny glow of flame licked at the open end of the fragrant cylinder. I inhaled, and the sweet, smooth taste filled my mouth. I dragged it in, placed two fingers around the base and brought the cigarette away, before blowing out a cloud of smoke. I passed the lighter to Ed.

   I’d been smoking since I was eight. I never let Dad catch me, and Mom didn’t care. After my time in the gym, I would shower and douse myself in deodorant to mask any scent that might linger. I knew it was bad for me, but you know what? It was the best part of the school day by far.

   “Who do you think comes down here?” Bobby asked, stamping a foot down on a discarded plastic bag. “Bet they’ve got the right stuff.”

   “I bet it’s the teachers,” Ed grinned. “They comes here after class with moonshine and Doritos. They gotta put up with little shitstains like us all day. Makes perfect sense!”

   “Rumour has it Ms Deacon had the janitor down here,” Dunstan said mysteriously. “They say you can still hear her, every night, grunting like a stuck pig. _Hmph-hmph! Hmph-hmph!”_ He illustrated with a look of simultaneous shock and bliss on his face.

   “ _Do me like a Math problem!”_  Ed called out in a shrill impression, and we all laughed.

   “Better hope she never says that to you,” I told him after a tug on my cigarette. “You’d never finish!”

   He laughed in return. “Don’t talk shit, Santorelli. You wouldn’t even know what to do with this…” He struck forward, hitting my groin with a glancing blow that caused me to scrunch forward in agony.

   “You fucker…!” I groaned, bearing the laughter of my friends. “I’ll split you in half ya piece of shit!”

   “ _Ooh, I’m scared_!” Dunstan mocked.

   “You think I’m kidding?” I said as I returned to my more natural, if painful posture. “You just wait to gym later. You’ll never wanna see a dodgeball again.”

   I sucked on my cigarette again and nursed my poor groin, the smoky drug doing a fair job of distracting me from the aching. I kept a paranoid eye on Dunstan, anticipating a second blow that never came.

   Ed became distracted as Bobby and Dunstan began a conversation about the Football, and pulled the cigarette from his lips as he prodded at something in the dirt with his worn, old sneakers. “Hey, dirtbags, guess who found a dead squirrel.” He muttered.

   “Who cares about some dead tree-rat?” Bobby huffed, uninterested in the interruption.

   “We could give the head to Santorelli,” Ed explained. “He _loves_ collecting the heads of dead things.”

   I shook my head, giving him little attention for the jab. No, my father was the head collector. He pickled them and kept them as horrible, ugly trophies. My friends said my house was haunted because of it.

   “Come on, man!” Ed insisted. “This might complete your collection!” He kicked his foot forward, balancing the squirrel on top of his shoe and looping it through the air towards me. It fell just short of me.

   “That shit is creepy,” Bobby coughed past a smoke cloud. “Weird horror movie shit. Ever tell your Dad that?”

   “You know I do. Think he cares?” I answered. “Anyway, I got a better idea. Got somethin’ we can wrap it in?”

   “Gonna have it for lunch?” Dunstan snorted.

   “No dude. I know a guy who could do with this little furry friend…”

   We finished up, discarding our cigarette butts indiscriminately into the trees. A plastic bag was wrapped around the rotting squirrel, amidst many groans of disgust at the sights and smells that came with the task. Since it was my idea, I was the unfortunate one that had to carry it into the school yard. The wrapping kept anything from leaking out, but the mere thought that I was carrying a dead squirrel almost made me want to vomit. _Come on, Colin,_ I said to myself, _it’s just a dead squirrel, you pansy!_

   The yard opened out to a wide space split down the middle by a gravel path leading over to the benches where we’d eat our lunches on most days. Most kids were at the school now, about five minutes before we’d have to head inside for the usual morning bullshit. It wasn’t hard to pick out targets here. Over the years, my eyes had been hard-wired to zero in on those deemed less-than-satisfactory. Those who refused to run, abstained from a scrap or hid in some instinctual fear of confrontation in dark, shadowy corners. Hunched over, malnourished and as imposing as a squeaky whisper. And the most hunched, the most malnourished and by far the squeakiest, was Luke, huddled against one of the benches like his was clutching his fat mama’s leg. He thought he was inconspicuous. He thought he could get through the day without punishment.

   Nobody comes to my school and cowers like a total wuss.

   “There he is,” I said to the others. “The little shit.”

   “Hasn’t changed a bit.” Bobby noted.

   We approached, and Luke was immediate to catch onto the danger. He knew better than to run, but he never grew smarter than that. He shrunk, almost pretended to be invisible to the world like a baby mouse. It never worked, and it wouldn’t this time, either. Summer break had done nothing to dull our senses, but only heightened them.

   “Hey Puke,” Dunstan greeted with a mocking sneer, whilst circling behind the bench he was seated on. “Long time no see.”

   Luke made a noise like a weak grunt. Whatever he said was unimportant.

   “Whatcha been up to, Puke?” Bobby asked of him.

   “Nothing…” Luke said warily. I could see him scrunching up like paper, twitching like he thought he knew what was coming.

   Bobby nodded. “Cool, cool… Say, is that a new backpack?”

   Luke’s hand flicked down like a blade from a brand new Swiss Army Knife, grappling like a magnet to one of the straps. “No.”

   “Ain’t seen it before,” Ed claimed. “I really like it, though. Lemme see.”

   He flung out a thick, stumpy arm and took a hold of the other strap. Luke wailed in distress, and both of his hands were now clutched to the backpack as the reality of today’s punishment became apparent. “Got off it, Ed!” He whined.

   Ed must have been at least fifty times stronger than Luke, and he laughed when he applied just enough strength to pull Luke, kicking and flailing, from his seat. He was dragged across the ground, still grappling for dear life to the backpack.

   “Let go, idiot.” Ed groaned. He started to shake it, and when that failed he placed a solid boot to Luke’s shoulder and pulled. It was more than enough to dislodge the screaming runt from his bag, and we laughed with joy as we scooted away towards the botanical garden used for certain biology classes.

   I looked back. Luke was pretending that he didn’t care, shrugging and refuses to rub the scratches he would have gotten. It only made me madder at him. _We took your bag, you little fucker! Get angry! Show some balls!_

   So without anybody giving chase, we rejoiced in our success as we entered the garden, pushing through a small wooden gate. All around were little tiny stems poking up from patches of soil in neat rows, each one maybe a foot apart. I spotted mine, barely struggling to break the surface, just a speck of green amongst a world of brown. In the rows behind were much prouder plants, having an extra few months to grow. Leaves spread out gloriously to the Sun, rising up to steal what rays they could.

   There was a greenhouse at the far end beside an old run-down shed. That was where all the equipment was stored. Buckets, garden forks, spades and a pair of rusty wheelbarrows. We were after the fertiliser, which was contained in big industrial plastic bags with the horse pictures on the front. Glorified horse shit. Just like our little friend, Puke.

   Bobby and I crammed ourselves through the narrow greenhouse’s sliding door, with Ed and Dunstan clambering to watch over our shoulders. Bobby dragged an open bag of fertiliser from beneath a rickety wooden bench and held the top wide open. “Puke is finally goin’ to live up to his name.” He spoke gleefully.

   “Here. Fill it.” Ed said, pushing the bag past my side and to Bobby. Bobby took the bag and threw back the zip.

   The bag flopped open, one single green book falling out. Bobby put the book back in, but that was followed by a hand-shovel of warm fertiliser. And then another. And another.

   “Put the squirrel in!” Dunstan cackled. “Put the squirrel in!”

   Bobby stopped filling the bag for a moment and held it open towards me. I unwrapped the dead squirrel with the furthest tips of my fingers, and watched it tumble and roll onto the mound of fertiliser that half-filled the bag. It landed with a quiet, damp thud.

   “That’s so sick…” Bobby laughed. “Quick, get me water!”

   Dunstan had anticipated, and had already started to unwind a nearby hosepipe from its housing. He pulls it over and reached past me, into the greenhouse, to give Bobby the nozzle.

   We didn’t really imagine what it would look like. The look of dirt and a dead squirrel spinning and swirling around a stream of high-pressure water, pages of books losing shape and perfect whiteness, and stray pencil dancing on the surface of it all. We had forgotten to salvage the lunch bag. I wouldn’t recommend anybody eat it, even if it had been well-sealed.

   We zipped the bag back up and cable-tied the zip to the fabric so that he couldn’t open it with any ease. Bobby cautiously shook it, just lightly enough that the strings of dripping water didn’t stain his clothing. The bag was returned to Luke with false sincerity, and from that day onwards, he was granted the new nickname _Squirrel Boy._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**2001**

 

   Staff Sergeant Randall snuffled, his big gaping nostrils flaring impatiently. A snorting bull, angered not by red but by the lack of it. The guy was notorious for pushing his men hard, so much so that the medical bay had a special name for early Tuesday mornings: Randall Hour. I had been told many stories of his antics. Once in charge of a physical training session in Georgia for a new intake of scared-shitless trainees, he got annoyed at their “lack of gumption” and forced them all to leopard-crawl up a steep, ice-coated hill. Then again. And then some more. He then butchered them in evening rounds because all of the resultant bleeding from their nipples was staining their clothing.

   Randall Hour… My boys would be finding out about it very soon. Nineteen hours, to be exact. Some part of me felt sympathetic. The rest of me wanted to see them battered and bruised, just as I had been not too long ago. I was past that stuff. I’d done my basic training. I’d been up to my neck in mud, struggling for every breath at Darby Queen. I’d felt my knees buckling on the long roads of Georgia with a log digging into my shoulder. I thought I’d fucked up RASP when I busted my ankle during a standard rope-climb. Damn, hurt almost as much as the rope burn when I came down!

   These boys had made the long journey to Private. They’d come out the other side of Ranger Assessment and spent some time finding their feet as US Army Rangers. Next would come one of their toughest challenges, and it wasn’t Staff Sergeant Randall’s morning drills or Monday Rounds.

   Sweltering heat in the deserts of California. Rattlesnakes and big spikey plants wherever you go. Ain’t no Drill Sergeant, Sun or scorpion gonna show you mercy here. This was something I had been warning them about for months. _You think this is bad? Just wait till you’re lost in The Box._

   And the little wussies were moaning about sand in their boots. Naïve pricks didn’t have a clue what was gonna hit them.

   I expected them to be more than capable of satisfying the Staff Sergeant at this stage. Through training they had demonstrated the discipline required. They just had to avoid the complacency that came with the completion of a phase of training.

   “Well, Santorelli,” Staff Sergeant spoke. “I think it’s about time you introduced me to your men.”

   He unfolded his thick arms from his chest and protruded his lower jaw, a look he often took before addressing groups of subordinates. He kicked eagerly at the sand below his feet, and it sprayed the tire of the truck beside us.

   I raised my own posture obediently, and took the lead as we walked towards the wood cabin, one in a long line of them. I placed my palm around the rusty handle as the noises of a rowdy group of men rose. As loudly as I could, I forced the door open, and called inside, “Stand to attention! By your bunks!”

   The reaction was pleasingly instant. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, my troop of eight switched like lightbulbs. Voices died, footsteps stomped guidedly. Within five seconds, each one was stood to attention at the left side of their bunk, arms at sides and chins raised proudly. They mostly wore plain green Ranger shirts above combat pants. All except the one wearing blue. That would need explaining…

   Staff Sergeant Randall’s head moved slowly from one side to the other, eyes narrowed to strain, to pick out any error. These men belonged to him, too, and if they didn’t meet his standard, they’d be in a world of pain.

   “So these are your men,” Randall seethed impatiently, scanning now in the other direction. “Look like maggots in tutus to me.”

   Whether he meant it or whether it was just a tone-setting line, I couldn’t tell, but I did as I was supposed to nonetheless. I stamped over to the first bunk on our left, making eye contact with its owner and stepping to the side. Randall followed and stood directly in front of the Private. I could see the smoke rising from his nostrils.

   “Sir,” I said. “Private Holder.”

   Randall looked him up and down, while Holder maintained a solid gaze both at and past him. He snorted a slight round of laughter an settled on staring him in the face. “Private Holder? There’ll be none of that here at NTC, Private. Is that understood?”

   “Sir, yes sir!” Holder belted.

   He was a younger member of the squad, barely past puberty, some would rumor. Slender in build and with a child-like face, he was nevertheless a good source of morale with his stupid laugh and can-do attitude.

   “That’s an unfortunate name, soldier,” Randall said. “You look like my niece, too. Do you wear girls’ clothing, Private?”

   “Sir, no sir!” Holder shouted. “My clothes are plain and boring, sir!”

   There were a few light sniggers from around the room. Randall’s head switched around, but he was lenient to it, and said nothing. He turned back to Holder, and nodded. It was a sign of acceptance. He and I moved away from Holder and to the next bunk.

   “Private Turnbull, sir.” I announced when we had re-found our positions. Turnbull was more squat than Holder in most every feature. His voice was of a higher pitch, and he had a crooked upper lip. He was also the foul-mouth of the group. I caught him almost every time.

   Randall saw something straight away, his eyes darting to a big crease than ran down over Turnbull’s shirt. Turnbull’s eyes flickered. He knew what had been seen.

   “Turnbull…” Randall sneered. “You look like a pile of shit, Private! That crease is longer than the Grand Canyon! I could fit a tank in there!”

   He gave the narrowest slice of room for Turnbull to make some pitiful excuse for his lack of attentiveness. More than likely, it was more a pause to allow him to calculate the appropriate number of press-ups.

   “Fifty, Private!” He boomed. Without hesitation, Turnbull dropped like a rock onto sturdy arms, and began the lenient punishment. “If I see that again,” Randall continued. “You’ll be ironin’ with a cold stone.”

   Tommy was next. He was the black-haired smiling prick who always had something to say, and never anything good. He was always the one caught up in a stir, whether it be right there in the mix or the whisk starting it all off. How he got this far without a modicum of respect was beyond me.

   He smirked when Randall approached, and it dropped at the perfect moment for it not to be noticed by the big man, but I sure noticed it myself. Randall was not the brightest spark in military history, but he was definitely perceptive. He could sniff out bullshit from a mile off. His eyes peeked into Tommy and scoured his brain.

   “Private Hutton, sir.” I informed over the muffled, rhythmic sounds of Turnbull’s clothing creasing and stretching in the midst of punishment.

   Randall said nothing, but closely inspected Tommy’s posture and clothing. Somewhat out-of-character, he was spotless. Randall hummed in consideration, and made eye contact again. “Good job, Private. Shame about that smarmy look on your face. You think you’re tough, huh? Big man in a grown-up’s uniform?”

   “I ain’t got no look on my face, s-”

   “Did I ask you for an opinion?!” Randall bellowed.

   “Sir, you asked a question.”

   I could see Randall’s teeth grinding. “You ever heard of a rhetonical question, Private?!”

   “I think you mean _rhetorical,_ sir.”

   “Shut your goddamn mouth, Private!” It would be yet another lesson for Tommy to fail to learn: Don’t correct Staff Sergeant Randall. “You don’t want me as your enemy! If I say it’s rhetonical, then it’s rhetonical and I don’t wanna hear you whinin’ about it! Turnbull, how many you got left?”

   Turnbull answered from the floor. “I’m on thirty-seven, sir!”

   “Get up! Private Hutton will finish your fifty, and do fifty of his own. Get started, Private!”

   Tommy got down to carry on Turnbull’s punishment in his place, a feisty snarl escaping to start it off. Randall watched on with an air of disgust, and then moved on again without a word to Tommy.

   “Anybody else got a problem with the words I use?” He asked of the room. Aside from the heavy breathing of Tommy, there was not a sound. Randall nodded slowly and motioned towards the fourth in line for the slaughter.

   Private Agnes Smyth. A weird name for a weird man. He was a bit runty, not as well-built as the others, and he was by far the quietest of the lot. He would speak when spoken to, and only when he could think of words witty enough to not be spat back at him. Which wasn’t often. Despite all that, he was one of the smarter ones, though he would never say it.

   But smart was a totally different thing to common sense. He had very little of that. Clumsy, stuttering and awkward, it came as no surprise that he would be the one wearing the wrong shirt. It was a dark blue, and not the camo green he was expected to wear.

   Randall was definitely not impressed as I introduced him. “Private Smyth, sir.”

   “I think my eyes have gone funny, Private,” Randall said. “’Cos I swear your shirt has turned blue. Is there something wrong with my eyes?”

   “No, sir.” Smyth spoke, almost a whisper.

   Randall exploded, repeating the question back in a guttural, verbal punch. “Is there something wrong with my eyes, Private?!”

   “No, sir!” He replied with a more suitable call.

   “Then please explain to me, Private Smyth, why your shirt reminds me of circus clowns!”

   “S-Sir,” Smyth stuttered. “I can’t find my green shirt.”

   Randall backed off with a chuckle. “Can’t find your shirt, huh? Well, ain’t that a pity?” He turned around to face the other side of the room that he’d not yet spoken to. The first in line was Private Olatunde, of Nigerian descent. A little lazy at times, but well-respected amongst the group and the biggest source of morale. Randall stared directly at him, and Olatunde didn’t flinch. “What’s your name, Private?”

   “Olatunde, Staff Sergeant!” He responded in the distinctive Nigerian accent.

   “Help us find the clown’s shirt, would ya?”

   Olatunde moved forward with haste and went for Smyth’s locker that had been left wide open for rounds. He ran his fingers through the clothes that were hung up, and then squatted down to investigate a pile that had been folded neatly. He stood back up, saying, “No sign of the shirt, Staff Sergeant!”

   Randall pursed his lips. “There’s a bag beneath the bunk.”

   Olatunde was quick to reach beneath the grey, metal frame of the bunk and pulled from it a large black luggage bag.

   “Empty it. Just there.” Randall said, pointing to the centre of the room.

   Taking the straps in two hands, Private Olatunde hoisted the heavy bag and heaved it to the centre. Before everybody - including Tommy, who’d just gotten back up from his punishment – he unzipped the bag and tipped it. Mounds of clothing, gadgets and books spilled out messily onto the cold floor. With a shake, the last minute items topped the pile like cherries.

   “Find it,” was Randall’s final order. Scrambling through the pile of assorted items, Olatunde made even more of a mess. However, he did eventually manage to find the guilty garment, and held it up with a stern hand towards the Staff Sergeant.

   “His shirt, Staff Sergeant!”

   Randall smiled and politely took it. “Good job, Private. Back in position.” Olatunde went back to his original place as Randall shoved the correct green shirt to Smyth’s chest. “This the one?”

   “Y-yes, sir!” Smyth stuttered, afraid to reach up to grab it.

   “Put it on!” Randall screamed. “Goddamn, if you ain’t the most useless sack of shit!”

   Smyth took it hurriedly and began to fumble it in his hands, before realising that he had to rid himself of the clothing he currently wore. He threw the blue one off and onto his bunk and attempted to don the correct one, initially confusing the collar for a sleeve. Having seen enough, Randall turned away, disgusted.

   “I think I’ve seen enough,” Randall grunted under his breath, loud enough for me to hear. “Join me outside, Colin.”

   We returned to the outdoors just as Smyth had managed to navigate his clothing. On the way out, I gave them an indicative gaze, an instruction to remain at attention while the Staff Sergeant and I discussed. I closed the door behind us, and we took a few steps forward onto the sandy terrain. Randall jutted his lower jaws and placed his hands to his waist.

   “Not impressed.” He said.

   “No, sir,” I agreed. “It’s usually much better than that.”

   Suddenly, it was my turn. I knew it was coming. “You need to set an example, Sergeant! What I saw in there was a bunch of school girls getting ready for first ballet class! This is the military, and we have standards. When those standards aren’t met, you’re putting America to shame! Would you put America to shame, Sergeant?!”

   “No, sir!” I called back, standing to attention. “Never!”

   “These rounds are done,” He muttered. “But I’ll be back in one hour. If I don’t see the standard, I’m gonna flip my fuckin’ lid. Is that understood, Sergeant?”

   “Understood!”

   He left without another word, stomping back towards the main barracks to the south. An hour was plenty of time to sort out the mess, but that wouldn’t stop me storming back to the door, angered by the behaviour of those I relied upon. I slammed open the door, and where I expected to find eight grown men standing to attention, I saw nothing of the sort. They were wandering aimlessly, kicking at the pile of clothing on the floor and laughing, joking about what had just occurred.

   At the centre of it all was Tommy, a big stupid grin on his face as he saw me enter. “So that’s Hothead Randall, huh? Guy’s a prick.”

   I was just about ready to explode. My body posture altered innately, and I pulled in a deep breath through my nose. My fists clenched. I couldn’t quite believe the insubordination I was witnessing.

   “To attention!” I blasted, utilising my full volume. After a moment’s confusion, the troops reluctantly – and slowly – retook their places. “And when I tell you to move, I mean _MOVE_!” I added when I decided their movement was too sluggish. It didn’t change much. When they had all come to attention, however, I started to pace between the two lines of them. “You think this is some joke?” I asked of them. “You think we’ve come here for a sunny vacation? Well, I tell you now, this place is no joke. _You_ are the joke. What just happened was a fucking embarrassment. And not just for you. For me. We’ve done this shit hundreds’a times before, and I’m startin’ to think that you just ain’t trying anymore. Well guess what, you’re in The Box now, shitheads. It’s about to get _real._  If you can’t even do the simply shit, then you’re in for the worst kinda hell. Now, Staff Sergeant has given us one hour. With luck, he’ll erase the last five minutes from his memory. We sort this mess of a cabin out now, and you escape whatever hell he has in mind for you. I want this place spotless. And when he gets back, I want him to say that you’re the cleanest pile of crap he’s ever seen at NTC. Is that clear?!”

   “Sir, yes sir!” They called back in unison. It was weak. Pathetic.

   “I didn’t hear shit!” I chastised.

   “Sir, yes sir!”

   Better.

   “And wipe that smirk off your face, Hutton.” I spoke to him directly as I walked past.

   I left the building and sighed as I looked out upon the base. It was a bad start. In a way, I could only blame myself. Something about those men… I struggled to maintain the reins. They were a gaggle of loose cannons and ugly ducklings. They fit together like a balloon and a hedgehog.

   God help them in The Box. I’d seen the place twice before, and it was never pretty. Hot desert, hard work and a hellova lotta scorpions. And who knows what else?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

   With rounds out of the way after the second attempt, I abandoned the men in search of my own guidance. They had somehow pulled their shit together to satisfactorily stave off Staff Sergeant Randall a little while longer, but they’d definitely made it to his list. I would be an idiot if I thought they cared. They weren’t here for bullshit. It was merely an inconvenience for them before they went onto bigger, brighter duties. And what better way to struggle through the torment of _The Box_ than to act like a buncha total dickheads? At least being a dickhead was fun. I knew that from personal experience.

   I was done with them for the rest of the evening, but I still felt a cloud over me. It was a grey cloud that threatened to spit bolts of lightning down onto my closely-shaven head. Not only was _The Box_ a test for the men, but it was also a test of my ability to maintain their standards and morale. If they failed, I failed, and there was one man here that I would never want to fail before.

   The corridor of the main NTC office block were dull and grey. It was like any other building you’d find in a town or city. Some people were talking something work-related, and the sounds of hardworking printers filled each gap between words and sentences. I could see them all behind the glass office doors, some in Army gear and some in civilian shirt-and-ties. What boring, shit jobs they had. Sitting in front of a screen and getting annoyed at a fucked stapler was my idea of hell. And that ain’t no joke! If Satan came and grabbed me on my deathbed and dragged me down to the Earth’s core, there’d be a water dispenser right in the middle and some weedy guys called Hubert, complete with specs and all sorts of stories about his favourite coffee shops. I’d sooner dip my balls in a deep fat frier.

   I passed all of that and entered the stores admin block. That was where a bunch of the officers came to send off all the ammunition files to keep the logisticians happy just a little while longer. The doors and walls were a bit dingier, and the voices gruffer, but I felt more at home. My destination came into view, and I knocked twice on the door that hadn’t received TLC in probably a decade. The door came ajar, barely closed to begin with.

   “Come in,” replied the bored voice from inside.

   When I pushed my way in through the door, the atmosphere I came into was of no shock. The office was dimly lit but pristine. There was a lingering smell of disinfectant and polish combined in the air, a smell I’d become very familiar with since I was a child. Of the limited items of decoration in the small office, most of them were colourless and practical, the only sign of personality being a prickly cactus standing guard on the desk beside the big cream-coloured computer monitor. On a shelf behind it all was a jar, and it was occupied by a grizzled, pickled skunk head in brine.

   The haunting figure in the seat caught my eye and got to his feet, rubbing a hand over his bald head. He walked around the computer desk with as much of a change of facial expression as I would always expect: zero. His movement sent out a distinctive scent of pipe tobacco that rapidly overpowered the other smells I’d come into.

   We embraced with one arm, and he slapped me firmly on the back.

   “My boy,” He spoke. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t bother coming to see me.”

   We let go of the embrace, and Father started to return to his seat. “The guys decided to piss all over Staff Sergeant Randall’s day. Extra rounds.”

   Dad sat back down with a grunt. “Randall, huh? Well, they’ll be in for it tomorrow. As will you. Not keeping them in good form?”

   “They did better second time around.” I replied, leaning on the edge of his head and observing the flourishing cactus.

   “Second time don’t mean shit,” Dad grumbled. “You wanna make the best first impression with Randall. Spits like a dying cobra. If it was as bad as I think, you’re in for a rough ride.”

   My head sank, fully acknowledging the fact. “I’ll be getting’ crap from both ends, I know it. I get plastered with dirtbags and clowns and I’m expected to make them look like the disciples.”

   Dad huffed. “You learn nothing from me, boy?”

   I stared at him, confused. “What the hell should I have learned this time, Dad?”

   “You make them look like grown men!” He insisted. “You take a buncha fuckin’ kids and you make men of ‘em. We don’t want _disciples_ around here.”

   “We don’t wanna buncha bitches here, either, but they don’t change.”

   Dad laughed this time. “ _You’ve_ always been one, and look at you now. I get it, boy, this is your first big lesson in controlin’ the untamed: the tame don’t wanna be tame, but goddamn they will be, and you’re the one to do it. Now, are you gonna whine about it or are you gonna do what you’re here to do?”

   “I know, Dad. I just wanna know how you do things around here.”

   “Always been a whiner, ain’t ya?” He said. “You wanna know how I do things? I do things the way I always told you. I raised you to be a man and not to take the shit that comes at you lyin’ down. And you know what? You’ve grown up just the way I wanted. You _are_ a man, Colin,” He smiled proudly. “You’re on track to outshine me in every regard, and I’m humble enough to say that I done a good job. Don’t mean to say you’re perfect, though, make no mistake. You’re a hothead, and you always have been.”

   “Come on, Dad,” I groaned. “I ain’t that much of a hothead.”

   “More a hothead than I ever was,” He replied. “Now I ain’t seen you whippin’ the boys into shape, but I’m willin’ to believe that you run them into the ground like they was whack-a-moles. Hit with the hammer and don’t think twice. You’ve always been that way.”

   “You’re talkin’ shit, Dad,” I countered with rising resentment. “I only beat them as hard as you ever beat me.”

   “I hope you ain’t beatin’ the sorry pricks with fists, boy. That’s a one-way ticket to a homely cage.”

   I shook my head. “I ain’t stupid.”

   “Not _that_ stupid,” He said. “But I don’t trust you got that sixth sense that any officer does, that says when and when not to hammer down on them moles. Son, I was exactly the same: Young and stupid.”

   “You ain’t even seen me run ‘em,” I argued. “Dad, I learned from the best. I know when to push and when to pull.”

   “Maybe I should see for myself.” He suggested, raising his hands in consideration.

   “I’d like that,” I said. “I can’t prove anythin’ to you here. I want you to see what I can do out there,” I pointed to the blacked-out window that would have provided a view to the long stretch of desert leading to The Box. “If I’m gettin’ it wrong, I want you to show me how.”

   He rested his hands back onto the desk and nodded lightly. One hand crawled forward and pulled up his tobacco pipe. “When you in?” He asked, starting to prep the pipe.

   “We start tomorrow at twelve-hundred at the southern border. Emergency Evacuation environment.”

   He flicked open a lighter and cupped the bulbous end of his pipe with a palm. A spilling of flame onto the compressed drug and a few persuasive inhalations got the ball rolling. An experienced hand held the pipe and pulled it away from his mouth, which blew cascading smoked into the air. “I’ll be there. I can shift my plans. Boy, I want you to show me your best. Show me what I want to see.”

   The smoke hit me. The smell of pipe tobacco was distinctive. It pinched my own filthy cravings, and suddenly it was all I could see and taste. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the thick packet of cigarettes. I showed the packet to him, and when he nodded I opened it to take out the first morsel that I could. Dad threw me his old metal lighter, and I caught it in one hand as the other secured the cigarette to my lips. I lit it, sucked in the smoke, and immediately I felt my body relaxed, satisfied with the fulfilment. I placed the lighter back on his desk.

   “Didn’t know they’d let you smoke in here.” I said to Dad.

   He grinned. “Who’s gonna stop me? They gonna get the smoke police on me?”

   “I guess not.” I sucked in another lungful.

   He laughed. “Rememberin’ when you were last here, huh? When you got caught with the coffin nails behind the barracks?”

   I recalled that moment an officer found me shrouded in my own smoke. I sure as hell wouldn’t forget the five hours of stocktaking I had to do as punishment. I shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I’m a little cautious.”

   “Well, you better not get caught doing what you ain’t meant to be doin’ again. You’re fine in here, but out there, they’ve gotten tough. Don’t know what it is, but command is startin’ to come down hard.”

   “Got some big inspection on its way?” I asked.

   He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Alls I know is that things have been runnin’ loose around here, and the whips don’t like it one bit. ‘Splains why people getting’ caught don’t get caught again. Whatever they’re gettin’ told, it’s scarin’ the livin’ shit outta them. Gotta hope you ain’t the next to find out what it is. Keep that heada yours cool, you hear?”

   “Dad, I know how to keep my head on straight.” I defended.

   He smiled and took another tug on his tobacco pipe. “We’ll see, boy. Now make yourself useful and get me some coffee. Throat’s as dry as my cock when your momma’s around.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**II**

   “So if we shift the denominator to the other side of the equation, we can…”

   Goddammit, I hated Math. The rest of Ms Thomson’s words become white noise, and I shifted tiredly in the cage of my arms. I pressed my head into them and grumbled, allowing my eyes to drop to the empty white pages of my Math book. All around me was the scribbling of pencils, but I couldn’t give even the slightest fuck.

   “Colin!”

   Ms Thomson’s shrill cry slowly returned me to the classroom. Her rabid eyes stared me down, almost enclosed by the curtains of straight brunette hair. The bitch looked only about sixteen. Who was she to yell?

   “Are you paying attention?!” She cried. “For the last time, pencil in hand, lead on paper!”

   I replied with a reluctantly obedient groan and picked up my blunt pencil in a weak grasp. I pressed the tip to the page and pretended to write. Not even she would buy it, but she was happy to maintain the façade of control.

   “Now, as I was saying,” She restarted aggressively. “We multiply _x_ by 5, and now we have our solution. So what at first looked like a Math nightmare becomes real simple. Okay, now I’ve talked long enough. Turn to page forty-nine of your textbooks and complete questions one to eight before end of class.”

   A task set, it was the perfect excuse to do nothing and potentially get away with it. The rest of the class thought as much, and the chatter started from whisper but escalated in volume quickly.

   “In. Silence.” Ms Thomson ordered.

   Great. That was the next twenty minutes ruined. I dropped my left arm heavily onto the desk and used the fingers to scrape through to page forty-nine, much as I didn’t want to. When I saw the block of questions, one to eight, I immediate threw in the towel. The questions had too many words. They were just simple equations, and that only made it harder. My pencil dropped onto my blank page and my eyes lazily studied the questions just to confirm that I had no idea what to do. It was a hopeless venture. I would never be good at Math, and my family history only proved that. When I asked Dad about algebra, he thought I had a fungal infection.

   I turned my head left to right. Everybody else was back to scribbling in silence, lead on paper. They knew what they were doing. Peter, right beside me, was always one of the smart ones. Complete nerd. He could be relied on to provide the right answers. That was why I sat next to him as much as I could. He was a useful friend, even if he was boring as hell.

   But before I could ask, or even brave an attempt to look over his writing arm, I felt the presence of Ms Thomson looming over me. She breathed over my shoulder and inspected my blank pages. She grappled the single sheet between two claw-like fingernails and flipped it over, revealing that the last time I’d written anything down was over a week ago.

   “I hope you have a good memory,” She said blandly. “Get those questions done, or you’ll be staying behind after class.”

   She drifted away to another desk, and I was left to bite at the end of my pencil, planting teeth into well-worn grooves. How in hell would I even stand a chance with these stupid Math questions? Whoever needed Math anyway? Stupid numbers meant shit!

   I wasn’t going to stay back after class, though. Where was the fun in that? I knew from vast experience that it was hardly worth it. In the corner of my eye I saw Peter, scrunched over his work like a well-trained dog. He knew everything.

   I glanced inconspicuously in Ms Thomson’s direction. She was lording over Bethany Willett, who was just as stuck as I was. It was the best opportunity, so I raised my line of sight over Peter’s arm and squinted to see what he’d put down for the first question… Damn teacher’s pet was putting down all his workings, and that made it hard to find the correct answer… Oh, wait! He’s underlined something! There it is! Thirty-point-zero-two!

   Bingo! I wrote the number one sided by a period, and then scribbled in the correct answer. One down, seven to go. I put the number two below one in preparation. A sly flick of my eyes to my right made sure that the coast was clear, and I repeated the action.

   _Move your damn arm, Peter,_ I seethed beneath my breath. As if he’d heard me, his elbow shuffled back. There was another underlined number. Twelve-point-four!

Two question done, I had to wait for him to complete the next question, which he was still working on. He flipped to the next page, and I waited patiently, trying to appear as if I was deep in mathematical thought.

   I had to try real hard. Ms Thomson crept right between us, casting her demonic shadow onto my desk. She stopped in place, acting like barrier blocking me from my mission. She was silent, surveying, and I knew that she would suspect the truth.

   But she waited. It was a deliberate investigation to see my next move. The pressure was there to progress, to prove that my previous two answers were genuine. I had to act, but in doing so I would only reveal myself…

   I wrote down a three, and proudly stamped a period beside it like it was some grand achievement. I looked up at her, smiling. “Yes, Ms Thomson?”

   She stared back with disbelief all over her, but she had no proof to back up her suspicions. Unfortunately for me, she was determined to get it out of me. She turned fully to face me, blocking Peter off entirely. Hands on hips, she said, “Show me how you do question three.”

   No I had a problem. However, it was not an undefeatable one. I hunched forward over my books diligently, and confidently spoke, “Okay, Ms Thomson. Let’s see…”

   It would take some great acting, but over the years I’d honed such a skill. I read over the question as if I knew exactly what it meant, even running my pencil under each line to further illustrate how effortlessly I could take in the information. I muttered the words and numbers quietly, and then posted my chin on ponderous fingers and hummed.

   “Well?” Ms Thomson urged.

   “It’s a lot harder than the first two, Ms Thomson,” I replied innocently. “Could you help me with this one?”

   She squatted down to get more to my level, which at first seemed as a genuine attempt to aid me. Then, she said, “Well, how did you do the first two? It’s the same principle.”

   “I… I did those ones…” I said, stumbling a little. “I don’t know how to do it here.”

   “It’s exactly the same.” She responded, the tone of her voice becoming more dangerous.

   She was winning. I had to push on. “Could you just help me? I don’t know how it works here. It’s different.”

   She pointed sharply at question two. “What did you do for this one? You haven’t written down your workings.”

   “I just…” I didn’t have an answer. My ploy hadn’t worked, and I knew what was coming.

   “How did you get that answer?” She insisted.

   “I don’t know!” I groaned. “I just did, okay!”

   Her voice grew angered, but remained hushed. “You copied that answer, didn’t you? If you did, you will tell me _right now._ ”

   “No way, I didn’t!”

   “You did, Colin! You _always_ copy. You think I don’t notice? You’re staying behind after class until you get these questions done!”

   I threw my pencil down, and it bounced away to the floor. “That’s bullshit!” I yelled.

   “Don’t you dare curse in my classroom!” She screamed, no longer keeping her voice quiet. “Get outside! I’ll be speaking to the Principal about this! Get up!”

   I knocked back my seat and snorted, happy to follow that one order. “Complete bullshit!” I raged, and as I stepped away from my desk, I unleashed my anger by thrusting my fists up beneath it, causing it to crash into Peter’s, books flapping to the floor to meet my pencil.

   “Get out!” Ms Thomson repeated.

   I stamped to the open door, and once outside I crashed it shut. Away from the eyes of my snickering classmates, I felt some of the rage subsiding. It didn’t leave quick enough to stop me punching the nearest locker.

   The door opened from behind me and quickly closed again. Ms Thomson looked furious. “Come here, Colin!” She ordered, pointing the space before her as I paced angrily at a distance. A little calmer now that I’d hit a few things, I was able to follow the order, though not without groans of irritation.

   “You need to start wising up, young man!” She growled, jabbing a red fingernail towards my chest. “This is the fifth time in a month! You do no work, you slack off, and you disrupt my class. This is the last time!”

   I shrugged, barely offering up a defence. I knew that I didn’t have one, so I’d just let her words bounce off of me. I leaned against the locker that was somewhat dented. At least she hadn’t noticed that.

   “Stand up straight!” She shouted, and I reluctantly did so. “I’ve had it with you, Colin. I’ve really had enough! You’re a little thug! Am I right?”

   Again, I said nothing. Nothing needed to be said.

   “The principle will be dealing with you,” She said. “This is the last straw.”

   “Do I look like I care?!” I countered, now past any self-reasoning.

   “No, and that’s the problem,” She said, pursing her lips and putting her arms over her chest. “And if you want to grow up never amounting to anything, you’re on the right track. You’re a waste of space, and I don’t want to teach you anymore. Go to the Principal’s office. Get out of my sight.”

   She went back into the classroom, flicking her hair and regaining her calm posture, leaving me to seethe on my own. What a bitch. Who was she to tell me that I would amount to nothing?! It was just stupid Math questions, after all. Did Superman need Math? How about Bruce Lee or Arnold Schwarzenegger? They’d kick Math in the balls and stretch its underwear over its head! I’d rather be like them than some nerd.

   Stupid bitch didn’t know nothing! I’d show her! I wasn’t a nobody! My Dad was in the Army! He’d killed people!

   I struck at another locker with a fist, and then looped a kick at it, too. If I was going to the Principal, I wouldn’t go without a fight. Problem was, lockers don’t fight back, and it was a lonely battle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

   They were at work. Not _hard._ Just at work. Their sluggishness was irritating, especially with Dad and Staff Sergeant Randall sandwiching me with broad shoulders. From our vantage point, we could spot every mistake, every stumble and hear every groan about a whisper. There was plenty of that going on, and they weren’t working hard enough to hide it.

   Their early morning exercise was something to behold. Randall sure pushed them hard, and he was willing to push them harder still. His presence, however, was not motivating them as he would have wished. They were tired, unresponsive and just generally lethargic. Randall took particular pleasure in witnessing Agnes Smyth, whose clumsiness was on full show, and he laughed and chuckled at every little error his pupils could scour.

   I had to have a little sympathy. It takes one helluva man to pass through Ranger School. You need to be a strong build, a stubborn little shit at times and a blind flaccid robot at others, and you need to know when to switch. You need guts and muscle and at least some brains. Smyth filled all of those boxes, else he wouldn’t be in this particular _box._

   But there’s always going to be a spectrum in any job. There are the strongest Rangers, and the fastest, and the most competent. He just happened to hold everybody up in each of those aspects. A Ranger Runt.

   “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me…” Randall snickered, turning away with hands on hips as a crate dropped from its precariously mounted position with the evacuation van, with Smyth gawking on as the guilty subject.

   Dad asked him, “So you have a favourite now?”

   “Sure do,” Randall cackled, wrapping his beefy arms together over his chest and jutting his lower jaw. “What’s his name again, Santorelli?”

   “Agnes Smyth, sir.” I replied.

   “I think you got your work cut out,” Randall uttered. He lifted a wrist to register his watch, and then boomed to the squadron, “Five minutes! If that truck ain’t loaded you’ll be startin’ over!”

   I continued to watch them. Their pace increased slightly, but not enough. They’d be doing it again, for sure. “They’ll get it done, sir,” I said to Randall. “Even if it takes ten resets.”

   “You think they’ll get ten resets when they do this for real?” Randall replied. “This needs to be done here, and it needs to be done now. You either get it done first time or you don’t. I ain’t sure what they taught you when you came through, Santorelli, but it sure ain’t the way I learned. That the way you learned, Bill?”

   Dad shook his head. “Sure ain’t.”

   Randall looked directly to me. “This is your best chance to turn these little bitches into men. I look at these pricks and I see a buncha boys who can’t tell their cock from a cactus. Gonna get a helluva sting unless they wisen up. Now, I hate bein’ the bad guy! I do. And I’m gonna be their worst enemy while they’re here. But I don’t give a shit, because we’re preparing them for war. You think they’re gettin’ a second chance when they get their legs blown off? You gotta get that message to them, Sergeant. That’s your job. That’s why I’m your buddy.”

   “I hear it loud and clear, sir.” I said.

   “For fuck’s sake,” He laughed. “Enough of that _sir_ shit. When they’re not here,” He waved a hand to the squad. “I’m Randy. Or Spud. We’re here to help each other, Santorelli. We need to get these men in shape.”

   “Why Spud?” I asked.

   He laughed, and so did Dad. “You don’t wanna know. Just keep it zipped around your army of pricks.”

   “I won’t even give ‘em a hint, Spud.”

   “Ha! Good man! See, we help each other out. You turn these shit stains into gold nuggets, and I’ll buy you a whiskey.”

   “You think he can handle his whiskey?” Dad asked with a mocking sneer.

   “He’s gotta earn it first.”

   Dad huffed. “You heard him, Colin. You said you were gonna show me what you could do. All I see now is a fuckin’ riot down there.”

   I noted the hint and retraced my focus to the squad. They’d been tasked with an emergency evacuation drill. In the blaring heat of the desert, it wasn’t as easy as it looked on paper. I was sweating my balls off just standing and watching. They were lugging around crates and trash bags filled with bricks, impersonating important and indispensable items. There was no clear leader, and there was an air of confusion all around them. Randall’s morning torture seemed to have pissed on all their motivation and morale. Crates and bags were strewn about at random, having all started in the same location, and showed no signs of being moved any time soon.

   I jogged down the small bank in their direction. They must have had only a couple minutes remaining, so anything I added would only make the final result a little less embarrassing. That, though, was reason enough to throw my weight around a little.

   Turnbull was closest to me, and he was taking a detour from the truck to the storage unit to apparently gawk uselessly at a small pile of abandoned crates. I caught his eye and he had the sense to expect an order.

   “Turnbull, why are these crates here?” I demanded.

   “We’re going to load them, Sarge.” He grunted.

   “I don’t see any loading,” I countered. “It’s a straight line from storage to the truck. How have these ended up all the way over here?!”

   Private Levin, a blonde-haired and quieter member of the squad, spoke up as he passed with two trash bags over his shoulders. “We’re making sure it all fits, Sarge.”

   “You have about two minutes to get all this shit loaded!” I burst. “You’re not playing Tetris, you’re evacuating a target zone!”

   “It doesn’t fit in the fuckin’ truck.” Turnbull grumbled.

   “It fits!” I argued. Turnbull begrudgingly started to take pieces from the sorry pile and trudged back towards the truck. I followed him, seeing at least three others gathering there like they were about to set up a picnic.

   Olatunde and Holder saw me coming, and they’d likely overheard what I’d said to Turnbull. Their sudden and miraculous burst of motivation wasn’t going to fool me.

   “This isn’t a joke!” I bellowed, causing them to freeze in place. “You want a sequel to Randall hour? You’re going the right fuckin’ way about it!”

   “Sorry, Sarge!” Holder called, jumping down from the edge of the truck and bounding off back to the storage unit.

   Olatunde was a little slower to react. He hoisted a box up onto the truck for Smyth to receive, who had taken on the role of stacking everything into place. “We are trying to make it fit, Sergeant.” He said, as if it helped anything.

   “Just get it in there,” I urged. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve barely left the truck.”

   “I’m getting it all in, Sergeant.” He excused.

   “Did you not get the hint?” I growled. “Go to the storage unit!”

   He swung around like a sulky teenager. “Okay, Sergeant.” He ran off at half-pace.

   Turnbull had just delivered another crate and scurried back away, leaving me briefly alone with Smyth as he threw a couple trash bags over the crest of crates that had already been loaded. I folded my arms over my chest and watched him. “You’re on Randall’s radar, Smyth,” I warned. “You better straighten up.”

   He stopped to look at me. “Huh?”

   I raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

   “I don’t…”

   “Shall we start again? _You better straighten up!_ ”

   He had stopped all labour and stared at me blankly. “I don’t understand…”

   “You don’t understand, _Sergeant!_ ”

   “Apologies, Sergeant!”

   “I’m fed up with your stumbling around like a drunk Sidewinder, Smyth. Someday, you might have to dig everybody here out of a real deep hole, and I’m not sure I’d even trust you with a spade right now! Do you hear me, Smyth?!”

   He stood shakily to attention. “Yes, Sergeant!”

   “Get moving! God help you if you all go fuckin’ this up!”

   A shadow crossed mine on the sandy ground. Tommy Hutton strutted past me, crate held firmly in both arms. He dropped it into the truck. “You heard the man, Agnes,” He sneered. “You’s the faulty cog in this here engine.”

   “Your mouth should stay closed, Hutton.” I told him. He shook his head and smirked. I had no time to respond.

   The booming voice of Staff Sergeant Randall swooped over the still air. “Time’s up! Get ‘em organised, Sergeant!”

   “You heard!” I called out across the training ground. “Form up!”

   The squad of ten finally showed some sense of drive, and I hadn’t seen them move so fast throughout the entire exercise. The imminent threat of an angered Randall was enough to give them a firm kick up the ass. They formed up near the truck, which looked miserably half-empty.

   “I don’t want to see a finger twitch!” I told them, standing before the tightly-ranked Privates. “You hear me?! I think even you can see that this ain’t good enough. Hutton, get that goddamn smirk off your face!”

   When I was satisfied that they looked dignified, I turned and stood myself to attention. Staff Sergeant Randall and Dad were calmly sauntering down the bank towards us. The took their time, and they could afford to. When they arrived, Randall took an extra couple steps forward and placed his crab-like hands to his hips. Dad had his arms folded, and maintained a stern expression.

   “Sergeant!” Randall thundered, keeping his gaze firmly held on the squad. “Is that truck filled?”

   “No, sir!” I replied.

   “How much time did these delicate petals have to fill it?”

   “Twenty minutes, sir.”

   “Is that enough time to fill a truck, Sergeant?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “Noted, Sergeant,” He frowned, and for a moment just allowed it to sink in for the squad. They were silent as soil. “Now then, who’s gonna step forward and tell me why this wasn’t a complete balls-up?”

   No movement. Nobody would dare.

   Randall nodded. “Very well. You fucked up. That bomb just went off and took half of you, as well as half the equipment. Now, what usually happens after this is we all head back to base to grab a bite to eat and get out of this sun. But you know what? I don’t think that’s going to happen.” He started to pace before them, and then he brought up a chunky claw and jabbed it towards Private Smyth. “You.” Then it came to Olatunde. “You. Down.”

   The pair got to the ground as he’d ordered, those around them dispersing slightly to allow room.

   Randall continued, “These two men were injured in the blast. Get them to the hospital and back. Go!”

   The reaction was instantaneous, and the eight other Privates began to procedures to build stretchers. The makeshift hospital was half a mile away and separated by open, hot desert sand.

   Randall took a step back and fell silent. He was observing, and I assumed it meant that I was back in charge. Given the ropes, I intended to pull them tight. They’d let me down one time too many.

   “Quicker!” I urged, stepping passed Private Levin who was trying to retrieve stretched equipment from his camo rucksack. “Get a move on!”

   Privates Holder and Ake had sprinted to the truck to grabs four long staves. With Levin and Turnbull preparing the sheets that would form the main body of the stretcher, Hutton and Mascarenhas were left to provide imaginary first aid to the fallen.

   Holder’s two staves went to Hutton and Turnbull. Turnbull had laid out the sheet and took the initiative to start piecing it together with a stave. Hutton took the other stave, as if he was about to help out. I was far enough to not cross his attention, but close enough to see everything that went on.

   He motioned as if attempting to help, but the end of the stave collided with Smyth’s head. It was no accident.

   “Hey!” Smyth yelped. “Watch where you’re throwing that thing, Tommy!”

   Hutton laughed. “You’re a casualty. Why don’t you shut that mouth of yours already and act like one.”

   Smyth looked ready to lash out, but I made my presence known to the pair of them with a few steps forward. Smyth grumbled and backed down. Hutton, however, wasn’t done.

   “That’s right, you lie back down, you ugly little shit,” He mocked. “Hope you’re ready for your joy ride.”

   I made sure to grab eye contact with him, but all he did was grin and turn away again. He felt no threat of consequence for acting like a complete dick. He needed to, and that meant that I had to act.

   “Get up, Hutton,” I told him. Reluctantly, and with a slouch, he raised himself to a standing position. I got right up to his face. I was bigger than him, and I wanted to make that count. “You think I’m going to put up with this _bullshit_ for the whole goddamn training?” I seethed.

   “What bullshit, Sarge?” He replied. “Only bullshit I see is having to run him to the hospital and back. _He’s_ the one that sucked so bad that we didn’t load the truck.”

   I gritted my teeth. He was pushing all the wrong buttons. “How did you even get here, Hutton? Who did you fuck to get through Ranger School? I ain’t never seen somebody who’s such a little dickhead in all my time in the military. People like you end up in some crack house sucking coke outta some disease-ridden slut’s asshole. When you’re in my military, and when you’re in my squad, you’re part of my team. Is that clear, Private?!”

   “Yes, Sergeant!” He responded.

   “Get that stretcher made!” I ordered. Hutton dropped down and dutifully got on with it. “Little shithead… You just wait…”

   He started to tie the sheet in three spots along the stave. Turnbull had completed his side and was acting the role of second medic to Smyth, who had lost the motivation to continue playing injured. He was glaring at Hutton with viciously curling lips. It was a sickening look, but one he clearly knew that he couldn’t act on. He wanted to hit Hutton so bad. His fingers were clenched into fists, but even his strongest punch would be no match for the sturdily-built opponent. Sure, he was a much smarter guy, but that counted for nothing in a physical brawl.

   Hutton never noticed it. I found myself staring at him, almost drifting off into a strange daydream. It was like I wasn’t seeing Tommy Hutton at all.

   He shifted, and the small group loaded Smyth onto the stretcher. With a heave, the four on each corner hoisted him into the air, and jogged away in the direction of the far-off hospital. The other stretcher was a little way ahead, but they’d both take a while to complete the needless task.

   “So you had them under control, did you boy?”

   Dad had crept up beside me, arms folded as he watched the struggle over the heatwave horizon.

   “They do just what I tell them,” I said back to him. “But there’s a couple of them that ain’t pullin’ it like the others.”

   He hummed and pursed his lips, chin pressing down into his chest like it was trying to force something out. He looked up again. “You remember that ol’ Chevy?” He asked me. “You musta been no bigger than a sapling.”

   “I remember it. You spent more time with that car than anything.”

   He chuckled bitterly. “Before I signed up, my only dream was to ride the highway with only The Eagles and some pretty girl keepin’ me company. That Chevy was all I ever got of it, and it never got to Austin without blowin’ somethin’. Damn radio never worked and no pretty girl ever graced the leather. What I got instead was your Momma, and instead of The Eagles I got a whinin’ little shit in a blue basket. What I got _now_ is a boy cryin’ to be a man, and a Momma six feet under where she belongs.”

   “Sorry for being a kid…” I grumbled.

   “You ain’t sorry for nothin’. You never have been. And you shouldn’t be. Sorry’s just a word. Don’t mean I get my Chevy back. Don’t mean I get to keep my dream. Sorry don’t mean jack to me, and I always told you that.”

   I looked at him, but he wouldn’t return the favour. “You gonna tell me why that Chevy is so important to me right now, or is this just some story ‘cos you ain’t got nothin’ better to do?”

   “I drove that thing for years,” He muttered. “Ran the damn thing into the ground. You remember I couldn’t get her back to life, no matter how much I prettied her up? Turned out the engine was fucked. Chain was fine, valves and pistons fine. Turned out the crankshaft had bought a one-way ticket to whatever hell car parts go to. ‘Part from that, it was all just like brand new. But that crankshaft… without that, it’s all for nothin’. I never got that sweet sing again, and I didn’t have no money at the time to change that. Whole thing got turned into some tiny metal cube down the scrapyard.”

   “It don’t take money to fix these crankshafts.” I sighed.

   “It takes somethin’,” He said. “And you ain’t got it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The men had grown ever more lethargic as the day went on. With that drop in energy, so came the collapse of both morale and output. Randall grew so irate watching them fumble their way through the next exercise that he repeated the morning’s physical training session. Some of the men were on the verge of losing whatever restraints held them to their duty, but once Randall had had his fun, he retreated for the evening and left them with me to deal with. The moment his back was turned, the groans erupted. I stayed far away from it all.

   The night was settling in, bringing with it a swift change of temperature. We weren’t to return to the barracks, instead being ordered to camp for the night in the empty wilderness of the desert. A roaring fire was set, and once tents were up it was time to have some much-needed food. The packs we were offered for the night were in small plastic bags, each with a different variety of snacks and meals designed to be compactly stored and offer enough energy to get the average soldier through the toughest days in the field. I tore open my packaging and rummaged through the plastic packets, finding a couple bean pastas, energy drink powder, a cereal bar and a pudding in what I’d come to known as the most disgusting custard ever made. I decided to have the green bean pasta. The oily, tasteless, bean pasta…

   Everybody picked a meal. We dropped them into a boiling pot of water hung over the fire to heat up - there’s nothing worse than a cold pack meal – while the troops entertained themselves with games and conversations that  on the outside would find far too inappropriate. Turnbull was long into a story about a girl he met in Kansas when I decided that my food was hot enough. I pulled it out of the pot, took my plastic fork, and peeled away the top of the pack to be greeted by vaguely-scented steam.

   “This bitch was skanky as fuck!” He exclaimed. “And she had about half her teeth missin’. Said her Dad knocked ‘em out when she stole his cigarettes.”

   “And you fucked her.” Holder said with his signature stupid laugh that sounded like a drowning mule.

   “Yeah, yeah, but you know the worst part?” Turnbull said, leaning forward to deliver what was bound to receive a reaction. “I’m fuckin’ this girl, yeah, and she’s on top, right. She’s lookin’ down at me and I’m lookin’ right up her nose. All a-sudden she sneezes, and all this shit goes right into my eye!”

   The reaction came with sickened groans and raucous laughter all in one. I pictured the image in my head of Turnbull’s face coated in some hooker’s mucus. My stomach turned, but at the same time it was irresistibly funny.

   “Is this when you tell us about your secret turn-on, Turnbull?” Private Ake asked.

   He held up his hand. “Oh, you got me! I had such a hard-on pulling strings of the shit outta my eyes. Could. Not. Resist.”

   Holder’s laughter rode over the rest, and Olatunde, lounging back on his camo sack, decided to challenge him on the subject. “Cock Grabber… That’s what they call you now? Why are you laughing?”

   Holder held a dopey grin. “What?”

   “Why are you laughing?” Olatunde repeated in his strong Nigerian accent.

   “What, am I not allowed to laugh now?”

   Olatunde grinned. “Not when you don’t know what you’re laughing about.”

   “He’s got a point.” Levin spoke.

   Holder looked from one face to the other. He always took a little while to catch on, the thick little prick. “What point?”

   “Little man,” Olatunde laughed. “You are too young for this. You know nothing about what Turnbull just said.”

   “Oh, oh, very funny,” Holder said, giving him a slow golf clap. “Just as funny as it was yesterday.”

   Private Timmy Southern, with the largest and always least-relevant mouth, said, “Don’t be jealous, Holder. We can’t all be funny.”

   Olatunde spoke up again before Holder could say something in retaliation. “Holder, you are trying to tell me that you are not a virgin?”

   “I’m not a virgin!” Holder laughed. “We all know who the virgin is here.”

   His gaze settled on Smyth, whose reply was quick and tinged with the general humor of the atmosphere. “I’m the only one here who’s married!”

   “And you’re _still_ a virgin!” Holder cackled

   “Be fair, Cock Grabber,” Turnbull said. “You can’t really have sex with a vegetable.”

   “You clearly haven’t seen what Olatunde does with watermelons.” Hutton mentioned to a rise of laughter.

   Olatunde shrugged his shoulders. “That’s right, that’s right. Just because I’m black I like watermelons. This is what I come to expect from you people. A bunch of racists.”

   Turnbull ran his fingers through the heating packs of food in the pot and eventually pulled one out. He threw it to Olatunde. “Ahh, shut up and eat your chicken.”

   Olatunde smiled and shook his head. “I will chase you down, Turnbull. You will remember this. But I am not done with Mr Puberty.”

   “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Holder groaned.

   “I want proof.” Olatunde stated.

   “Proof of what?!”

   He opened up his pack meal, and the steam enveloped him. “You must prove to us all that you are not a virgin.”

   “What the hell do you want me to do?” Holder asked.

   “Prove it to us.” Olatunde restated.

   Holder laughed and raised his arms. “How?!”

   “Only a man who is not a virgin would know how.”

   “Go on then,” Holder replied. “You prove that _you’re_ not a virgin.”

   “I do not need to.” Olatunde said.

   “Why not?”

   “Because I’m not a virgin.”

   Hutton added, “Man’s got a point, Cock Grabber. Come on, prove it to us.”

   At this point, Holder was no longer taking the bait, and he lay back against his camo sack with a big exhale. “Whatever, man. This shit is getting’ old. Let me eat my tuna & oil in peace, huh?”

   Smyth, replacing an empty food packet with a full dessert one in his hands, took the opportunity not to end the stupid game, but divert it and continue. “Hutton, why don’t you prove to us that you ain’t an inbred piece-a shit?”

   It was tinged with malice, and the spite rolled from his tongue. A couple ‘ _oohs_ ’ were stirred amongst the witnesses, but Hutton remained dead-silent, barely even a smirk of resentment showing. Instinctively, I put down my hideous, tasteless pasta packet. Whatever noise around the small camp was present quickly faded away, leaving nothing but the polite roar of the fire.

   “What’s that you got there, Smyth?” Hutton asked with a monotonously, damn-near threatening tone.

   Smyth shuffled awkwardly and turned his a gaze away. Pretending that nothing was wrong, though, wouldn’t protect him. “Chocolate-chip brownie.” He replied nonchalantly. He started to peel open the packet.

   Hutton wasn’t letting him escape so easily. “I want it.”

   I had to interject. The tension between them could so easily set Tommy off, and he’d be set on turning Smyth’s face into a mangled mess. “Hutton, Smyth, cut the shit.” I insisted.

   But Hutton ignored me entirely. “Didn’t ya hear me? I said _I want it_ …”

   “Then get yer own.” Smyth replied.

   Hutton pinched his lips, and his body rocked backwards and forwards lightly. He was caught in two minds. The silence around the camp made the decision process almost immediate. He looked to the others, who were still in place, and then got up. He stomped past the fire towards Smyth, who was ready to retaliate, jumping to his feet.

   “Sit down, Hutton!” I yelled. I sprang up and moved to intervene, but at my voice Hutton sped up, and one set of fingers curled around the collar of Smyth’s jacket. The other tensed back and unloaded, crashing with a cracked against Smyth’s jaw.

   There was a howl from the crowd, and yet I was the only to react. Smyth was crumpling to the ground as another piledriver came in from the unrestrained Tommy Hutton. I barged into his side and tried to force his arm behind his back. If I could get him to the ground, I could get him under control. Problem was, Hutton was no weed. He was just as tough as I’d ever been, and he wouldn’t go down without a scrap. He swivelled in my grasp and managed to grab at my shirt collar, and my motion away caused it to pull tightly at my neck. I lost my surprise advantage, and in the flurry of the fight I instinctively resorted to curling my fingers into fists with willingness to punch.

   Tommy pushed me backwards and voiced his anger with a hurling of abuse. In the light of the fire I saw that his gaze had locked on to me. Smyth’s groaning had meanwhile died down beneath the fire’s roar.

   I’d wanted to fuck his smug little face up ever since I met the prick. Even when his expression was overrun by aggression and hate, that irritating smirk shone through like a lighthouse on a clear ocean night. Yeah, he was a couple years younger, and yeah he was at the peak of his training, but goddamn I’d been waiting for the moment I could bury my knuckles on the greasy contours of his nose and feel a crack around them. The shit deserved everything he got

   But It was Turnbull who grabbed at Tommy Hutton’s arm to bring an early end to my desire, though it did not dislodge Hutton’s focus. My line of sight was soon after blocked by the silhouette of Ake.

   “Sarge, come on,” He urged. “Chill, man, chill.”

   “Outta my way, I’m gonna fuck-up that cunt!” I seethed, tilting to look past Ake, but the other members of the squad were filling up the empty space. I couldn’t see Hutton at all, even though I could still hear him.

   “Get a grip, Sarge! You don’t wanna hit him!”

   The haze lifted slowly, and the control was coming back to my arms and hands. My fists disengaged, and I finally turned away from the direction of my target. Suddenly, I felt shame.

   “Ake, phone the medics,” I told him. “Tell them to get here right now.”

   “Yes, Sarge.” He said. He took a moment to keep a watch on me, just to make sure I’d calmed. Then he jogged to my tent where I’d put the phone, leaving Holder and Levin to take over his place as my cuffs.

   I’d regained my sense enough by that point to turn my focus, and having already sent Ake off to call for the medics, I told Holder and Levin that I was no longer interested in punching Hutton’s lights out. I moved on over past the logs that we’d used for seats and located Smyth, who was flittering in and out of consciousness.

   Hutton had really laid into him. His face was splattered with blood from any one of his leaking facial features, and bubbles foamed from his lips as he moaned lightly. Hutton had gone to town on the sorry prick.

   I cursed under my breath as I inspected the damage. “Alright, Smyth, quit your moanin’. Won’t make it hurt any less.”

   In a spate of consciousness, he heard my words and replied, “Let me at the guy, Sarge. H-he got it comin’…”

   “You’re not doin’ any of that, Private,” I told him. “We’re gettin’ the docs up here to take a look at ya. Just stay down, okay?”

   I did what I could and brought Ake down to watch over him once the medics had been alerted. While preoccupied, the others had calmed Hutton enough that he’d taken a seat at the far side of the camp. He was calm enough to be halfway through a packet of beef stew. He barely lifted his head enough to acknowledge me when I stepped before him.

   “Private Hutton,” I said to force his attention. “You proud of yourself?”

   He scooped a giant forkful of stew into his mouth and watched me nonchalantly. After chewing, but still with his mouth full, he said. “You saw what he did, Sarge. I don’t let people disrespect me. It’s just the way I am.”

   I nodded, biting my lips while I did. “I know just who you are,” I said. “I won’t be forgettin’ this. You know that, right?”

   He looked back to his food and prepared for his next mouthful. “Couldn’t help myself, Sarge. Just like you couldn’t.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

I despised the way he sauntered amongst them like a presidential candidate in one of those campaign ads. It was like he’d gotten away with it, but he neglected to think that maybe his punishment would come later down the line. I’d been too busy organising Smyth’s trip to the nearest hospital to deal with the little prick. If his mission was to piss me off, then damn, he’d sure done it like a pro.

   So we were a man down for the rest of the training, and if the cocksucker was gonna spend the rest of the exercise flaunting around like he’d achieved something, it might as well have been two.

   And I sure wasn’t the only one. Despite Smyth’s clumsiness and his awkwardness, he wasn’t disliked by anybody other than Hutton. Not even the stupider of the squad was buying into his bullshit, and I was worried that it would lead to another hospital appointment. Maybe I’d be the one to send him, because for sure I so sorely wanted to.

   Now I had to trust him, as well as the others, to improve on yesterday’s embarrassment. We were posted beside a small street that was made to look like some back alley somewhere in the Middle East. We’d been alerted that there was terrorist activity in the area, and that they were pushing to take control. There were innocents there, wearing baseball caps and bright shirts so that they could be recognised. My guys were waiting for a signal beside a couple armored trucks.

   I was with Randall again. Father had his own work to do, and I was thankful for that. I didn’t want him to know what had happened, even though he’d probably already found out. Things spread quickly in these places.

   Randall didn’t waste time in telling me just what kinda shit I’d gotten myself into. He was empathetic, but he was always a stern fucker and I expected a few mocking and truthful words. He kept his eyed glued to the troops the entire time, like he was expecting something to happen again.

   “Now I hate to sound like I’m repeatin’ myself,” He grunted. “But I’ve seen fancy little boys like that Hutton before. Prance around like they own shit. You think you can change ‘em, but all you can do is wrap ‘em up in a ribbon and perfume and hope they still don’t look and smell like a pile-a shit, and that particular pile-a shit is gonna need a helluva ribbon and a river of perfume.”

   I asked him, “Have you ever had one like him?”

   “You know I have,” He said. “I coulda strangled that boy until his eyes went blue. Now I know you wanna do that, too.”

   “I don’t want him in my squad, Staff Sergeant,” I told him truthfully. “If somebody pummels the living shit outta one of his own men, then I don’t think he should be anywhere other than a rusty cell.”

   There was the guttural growling of a motor vehicle emerging over the still air from behind us. We both watched as the truck rolled down the dusty road to our position, the sunlight ricocheting cruelly from the shuddering windscreen. It parked up against a shallow bank a short distance behind us, and the first door opened to a smiling, laughing Sergeant who must have just heard some funny joke.

   “Get ready for an earful, Colin,” Randall warned me. “The Command Sergeant Major’s interested in your unit. It ain’t hard to figure out why.”

   “What’s he like?” I asked, fearing the worst.

   “Hard. And fair.” Randall replied. “Just don’t stare at him too long. He doesn’t like that.”

   “I was taught to stare when somebody’s talkin’ at you.”

   Randall looked down at me over a broad shoulder. “Now’s the time to disregard that lesson.”

   The Command Sergeant Major stepped out from the truck on sturdy, worn boots. Unlike the Sergeant, and a First Sergeant that had also joined them, he wasn’t laughing. He didn’t look like he was in a laughing mood. His mouth was shut tightly, a flat set of lips refusing to unburden whatever emotion he may have had. He had the solid body of a journeyed veteran, not so big as Staff Sergeant Randall but just as intimidating, if not more with the cunningness that spat out from him. He glanced to us, and then back to his escorts, and then to us again as they indicated their readiness.

   I firmed up my stance and got ready. As did Randall. When the CSM was close enough, I offered my best salute, and followed Randall in calling, “Good morning, Sergeant Major!”

   He accepted my salute in the regulated fashion, and then adjusted the cap tighter over his eyes. “Good morning, gentlemen. Mighty fine day for your training.”

   “Mighty fine, Sergeant Major.” I agreed.

   “Sergeant Santorelli, correct?” He asked of me.

   “Yes, Sergeant Major.” I replied.

   “Yeah,” He mumbled. “I’ve heard about you and your boys. I’ve heard that they’ve been causing us some trouble. Heard one of them is down in Barnstow Hospital.”

   “Private Agnes Smyth, Sergeant Major.” I confirmed with a nod.

   “Unfortunate name for an unfortunate man,” The CSM said gravely. “I’ll be paying him a visit later this afternoon. Now, might I ask how this incident occurred?”

   “Yes, Sergeant Major. The incid-”

   “Enough with the titles.” He huffed with a hand-wave.

   I bit my lip, and then continued. “The incident happened last night as the squad finished their exercises. A fight broke out between Private Smyth and Private Hutton. Private Hutton got the better of him.”

   The CSM kicked at the dirt and breathed heavily. “And where is Private Hutton now?”

   I swivelled to allow him sight of the squad. “Down there, waiting for the next training exercise.”

   “And what do you suggest we do with him?”

   I paused to consider my answer. Those Privates weren’t the only ones being trained. “Disciplinary action.”

   “ _What_ disciplinary actions?”

   “Article 15 hearing,” I said. “I’ll make a report to my Second Lieutenant and he can decide on the punishment.”

   “I’m not asking him. I’m asking you.”

   I paused again. “Extra-duties. Thirty days.”

   His facial explanation – or lack thereof – was unchanged. “Thirty days extra duty for sending a fellow soldier to the hospital. Might I ask why they were fighting?”

   “Chocolate brownie.” I answered.

   He was watching me curiously. I realised that I’d been staring into his eyes for a while, and looked down to the ground, heeding Randall’s words.

   “Chocolate brownie…” CSM repeated disapprovingly.

   “Musta been the straw that broke the camel’s back,” I added. “They really don’t get along. They were at each other all day. Just no punches.”

   “So you’re saying that they showed signs of this before the fists went flying?”

   I looked into his eyes again. “I didn’t think it would get physical, Sergeant Major.”

   He allowed that line of talk to end and nodded. I could feel his frustration. “Thirty days extra duties… Who’s your Second Lieutenant, Sergeant Santorelli?”

   “Second Lieutenant Peter Buck.” I said.

   “Bucky. I’ll pay him a visit. See what he thinks about this _Private Hutton_ ,” He stepped forwards to come alongside me, watching over the lounging squad. “I want to see them in action. Who’s in charge of the exercise?”

   “Private Southern,” I told him. “He’s got the red band on his right arm.”

   It was difficult to tell them all apart, what with them being in full kit. They all had matching helmets and empty Carbines, with only small features helpful in telling them apart. Ake and Olatunde were easy, being black and all, but they wouldn’t have been of concern to the CSM.

   “And which one is Hutton?”

   “The one nearest to the village.” I said.

   CSM scanned over the squad, not that there was much to see. He probably saw a lot more than I did, though. “Let’s see them in action.”

   Randall lifted a radio to his hammer-like nose and spoke quiet words into it. In a moment, there would be gunfire from the village, and the villagers would be sent into a panic.

   I had my eyes on Southern. This would be his first opportunity in the NTC to show off whatever leadership skills he’d managed to lick off of an untold number of officers’ boots. After all their basic training, and after Ranger School, they would be expected to perform to the greatest standard. Anything below that, and they were in for Randall’s wrath.

   The gunshots were fired. There were screams of women and the yelps of men. The villagers I could see were rushing into the nearest shelters. Those shelters were darkened on the inside, filled with obstacles and noises.

   The squad perked up immediately, and heads turned to Southern who didn’t delay in thrusting out some quick battle orders. He split them into three groups and pointed out for them entrance points. From what I could tell, he was going to sweep from one end to the other. It was simple, and it could work.

   They moved out, with barely seconds having passed since the gun blast were heard. It was snappy, and it was good, but the basics wouldn’t be what impressed the CSM.

   They needed to impress. _I_ needed to impress. If we’d already developed a negative reputation among the officers this early on, we needed to go above and beyond to repair it.

   The squad breached the village, their close-knit clusters seeming alert enough. They checked the flanks, checked behind and above. Before they could disappear behind the building, the CSM wandered down the shallow bank towards them. He was keen to keep a close eye, and Southern would be the obvious target. Leaving his escorts behind, Randall and I followed the boss into the line of false buildings, where we could see Southern’s small group advancing cautiously. They took note of us, but continued as if we were invisible.

   “They’re a bit slow…” CSM commented so that Randall and I could hear.

   “A little insurgency action would liven them up, I think.” Randall suggested.

   Our casual stroll took us past one of the larger complexes of the village, which was meant to impersonate a church. There were three actresses peeking fearfully out of the door, watching Southern’s group as they passed. When we reached them, the CSM stopped us and called over one of the women. She broke character and jogged to his call. Keeping his voice low, he spoke close to her ear, and she nodded frequently. When he was done, she skipped away, disappearing down a dusty alleyway, abandoning her previous post.

   Randall asked the CSM when he was done, “What did you send her off to?”

   He smiled lightly, almost cruelly. “She’s got a bombed strapped around her waist.”

   Randall chuckled and looked to me. “Think they can deal with that, Santorelli?”

   “They’ve dealt with terrorist with bombs,” I said. “Not sure about civilians.”

   The squad was progressing through the street with nothing in their way. They remained on high alert, as they’d been trained, but I worried about how they would deal with the CSM’s monkey wrench, and whether the battle orders would fly outta the window.

   The actress had made her way to the opposite end of the long street. She exited a faraway building and stood directly in front of the advancing soldiers, and on her clothing she’d acquired a thick band around her waist, black and distinct against her lime-green shirt. She cried out in horror and panic, and started to run straight at the soldiers.

   Ake shouted, the first to see the oncoming civilian. “Don’t move! Don’t move!” He pulled up his Carbine and took a readied stance. Southern and Turnbull swivelled to join him.

   “Don’t come any closer!” Southern yelled to her.

   But a panicked civilian isn’t easy to control. She slowed down in her approach, but tearfullly she cried out to them in muddled, broken English that they would struggle to understand. She continued at a walking pace, and that was prompting some panic from the soldiers.

   “US Army!” Southern bellowed. “Stop your approach or we will fire!”

   “She’s a fucking civilian!” Turnbull thought to mention.

   Southern was conflicted, and he looked to the other two as if for guidance. He was hesitant. He lifted his radio twitchily to his mouth. “All units on Route Bravo. Repeat: all units on Route Bravo.”

   The actress was doing a good job as the distressed villager. She was still approaching, barely meters from them. They started to edge backwards, unsure at first of how to deal with the situation. Her hands were clutching at either side of the band around her waist that posed as the bomb, and Southern finally caught on.

   “IED! IED!” He screeched in the breaking voice of a man barely past puberty’s finish line. The call moved them all backwards a few paces, and lifted the barrels of their rifles a couple inches higher. “Don’t move!”

   The actress finally stopped. Her voice was merely a sorry whimper as she pleaded them for help in a language they couldn’t wrap their tiny brains around. Another civilian – a guy in a torn blue vest – came from the church just behind us, waving his arms frantically in the air. He called out, louder than the soldiers were yelling at the IED-strapped woman. Loud enough that all three of them turned simultaneously, rifles poised to unload.

   “Save her!” The actor demanded in a convincing Hajji accent. “Why are you not saving her?!”

   Turnbull lowered his weapon enough to not appear threatening to the man. “Stay back! US Army!” The actor raised his hands defensively and froze in place.

   They were keeping it under control, even if it seemed frantic and indecisive. Moves would have to be made very quickly if it wasn’t to erupt further. It couldn’t have been long before an insurgent reared their ugly block.

   From behind a small dwelling, the second of the small groups appeared, charging into the street with urgency. Hutton, Olatunde and Holder, rifles poised for an attack. They had no idea what they were stepping into. Southern hadn’t informed them.

   “Get down on the ground!” Hutton blasted to the IED-strapped woman. “Get down now!”

   The woman panicked, now flanked by the new, aggressive group. She whined loudly and threw herself down obediently. She hit the ground with a _thump!_

I heard Randall chuckle abruptly. “Stupid little prick…” Then, he called out for them all to hear. “On the dust, Hutton! You’ve been caught in the blast!”

   There was confusion amongst them, and they looked to each other for some reassurance. Hutton held a frustrated grimace across his face, like somebody had pissed on his boots. Even he, though, wouldn’t answer back to club-hand Randall. He sighed angrily and roughly dropped down onto the sand.

   The actor who’d demanded the rescue of the woman was in hysterics. He shouted and screamed, no longer standing back at Turnbull’s order. He pushed Turnbull roughly in the chest, who in turn stood his ground and raised his rifle again. “I said stay back! Stay back you piece-a shit!”

   Seeing his task quickly taking a downturn, Southern made his thoughts clear. “Hutton you fuckin’ idiot! Why the fuck did you do that?!”

   Olatunder and Holder were tending to Hutton while he was on the ground. Hutton wasn’t going to let Southern’s words go unanswered, though. “You didn’t tell me what the fuck was goin’ on, jackass!”

   Southern stormed forward, prompting Hutton to jumped up defensively. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t knock your block off, cunt!”

   It was rapidly going out of hand. Olatunde was trying to sandwich himself between the pair, but the red mist was descending faster than it could be blown off. Randall saw it, too, and he was already running over to intercept.

   I was about ready to make myself known, but words from the CSM held me in place. “Stay here, Sergeant.”

   Randall’s enormous frame barged between the pair, and he unleashed a rage that almost sent them physically flying apart. Hutton was told to get back to the ground, but in a fit of anger he tore off his helmet and launched it against the closest wall. He was ordered to pick it up and carry on, and though he did, all motivation was sapped. The team morale –what there was of it – was gone. Randall stood amongst them as they continued, a warning statue to maintain order.

   When I finally glanced back to the CSM, I noticed that his watchful eyes had looked away. His interest was gone, as had our chance to impress. I tried to find the right words, but there was nothing that could be said.

   “This isn’t what I expect from a trained unit.” He said bluntly.

   “No, Sergeant Major.” I agreed.

   “How long have you been in command of this pack of mindless apes, Sergeant?”

   “Seven months.” I answered.

   He nodded and folded his arms over his chest. “You understand how much this disgraces the NTC, right? If it disgraces the NTC, it disgraces the nation. If it disgraces the nation, it disgraces me. I don’t like to be disgraced, Sergeant.”

   “Understood, Sergeant Major.”

   “I’ll give you a month,” He said. “Thirty days, same amount of time your man Hutton is on extra duties. I will assess your men again, and by then I want to see improvement. Is that clear, Sergeant?”

   “Clear, Sergeant Major!”

   “I want these oxygen thieves to shine brighter than a pin-up’s ass.”

   “Oh, they’ll shine bright, Sergeant Major.”

   He finally looked back to me. “It’s clear to me that your men get along like rabid raccoons in a leather sack. There’s an outpost just north of the base, like some camp with a shack. There’s a darts board, snooker table. Even a couple drinks locked up in storage. We use that place for unit welfare, just to give the troops some downtime. You’ll take your men up there tonight and tomorrow. These cogs need a little grease.”

   “Agreed.”

   “I’ll get Sergeant Colson to hand you the keys and co-ords,” He said. “And you’ll straighten them out, Sergeant. You’re on our radar now, and that’s somewhere you don’t want to be.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

We arrived at Cabin Cali at 1800. After an afternoon of physical exertion and self-reflection, the squad was exhausted and gladly welcomed the retreat as if it were some reward for a job well done. I made sure to tell them that that wasn’t the case at all, but it was hard to convince them when they found the fridge and the Dorito chips.

   “Seems like punishment to me!” Holder exclaimed with a chips bag in hand, as the team ravaged the cupboards.

   They laughed and joked, and for the first time, they seemed to look like a healthy buncha guys.

   The effects of the place, then, were better than I thought.

   “You after somethin’, Sarge?!” Levin called up to me.

   “What you got?” I asked back.

   He rummaged through, getting down on both knees to get right to the back. “Some Cheetos, pack-a dried nuts, oatmeal, and…” He lifted the last item out, presenting it to me. “A chicken sandwich.”

   “That’ll do.” I said. Levin threw it over and I caught the food, wrapped in thick cellophane.

   Food and drink dispersed, everybody was starting to settle into the social area: A collection of old mouldy sofas arranged in a large square, a games table standing proudly in the centre. There wasn’t a single grimace or groan from them, and Turnbull had already begun one of his bullshit tales that kept everybody entertained. They laughed, every single one of them.

   A beer was thrust to my chest and I took it without hesitation. Why shouldn’t I? I cracked it open, and after a long, hot day in the Sun, a cold beverage to me was like high-heels to a rich girl. I ended up helping myself to two. Or three. And I mixed with them. For all the things I would say to them, or about them, being out of uniform was like becoming a different person. I became just another one of them.

   But, of course, Hutton was still itching at the back of my head. The scumbag hadn’t spoken to me directly, but as the night went on and the bottles piled up on the games table, and the occasional off-handed comments sprang between us, his face and his personality became nothing but a blur. That’s just what alcohol does to you: Even the foulest fucker becomes a friend.

   We came face-to-face when I was shoulder-deep into the cupboard, searching for those Cheetos I’d heard about earlier. When I pulled myself back out, Cheetos in hand, I saw dirty brown boots waiting. I rose up to my feet.

   “Hutton.” I greeted emptily.

   “Hey, Sarge,” He replied. “Say, you got any more-a those?”

   My hand was already lodged inside of the packaging. “Didn’t see no more,” I said honestly. “Big ol’ pack-a buns in there, though.”

   Feeling a sense of fairness, and Humanity that I often felt he didn’t deserve, I titled the Cheetos in his direction once I’d pincered a few in my fingers. He gladly reached in and took a handful.

   When he pulled his hand back, he said, “Ain’t so bad up here, Sarge.”

   I titled the Cheetos back to myself and leaned back against the counter. I looked over at the games table where my beer was waiting for me. I’d be back for it as soon as I could. I couldn’t just ignore my own soldier, though. “No, it’s alright.” I agreed.

   I wasn’t looking at him, so I didn’t clock onto his hesitance straight away, but when I noticed that he had gone quiet I saw it. His head was dipped a little, and he looked shameful.

   “Sarge, didn’t wanna mention this around the guys, but now that we’re over here… I’m sorry, Sarge.”

   I even stopped chewing. Did that little turd Hutton just apologise? I nearly choked when I Cheeto slipped to the back of my throat. “What?” I blurted, unable to say anything else.

   “You know, I know that I fucked up, Sarge,” He sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s why we’re up this this cabin, here.”

   He paused, allowing me room to speak, but I didn’t have the words. My silence permitted him to keep talking.

   “Yeah, man, I’m sorry. Rest mist, you know,” He swiped a hand down over his face, accompanying it with a _whoosh_ ing sound. “And you know I couldn’t stand that Smyth son of a bitch.”

   “You’re right,” I replied. I felt some of the shock and restrain fall away. “You fucked up. You fucked up bad. You sent one of your own men to hospital. What happens when _you’re_ in charge, Hutton? What happens when a Private under your command is some snidely little prick who can’t keep his whiny little trap shut? You gonna send them to hospital?”

   He was flustered, but that attitude of his wasn’t rearing its ugly head. “You’re right, Sarge,” He said. “I gotta control myself. You’re right.”

   I wasn’t sure if it was the cabin that did it, or the alcohol, or whether he was just taking advantage of my own beer-happy condition in order to lessen whatever punishment was coming his way, but I felt just a little sincerity there. Whether it really was, I guess I’d never know. The shit apologised, and I accepted it at face value. I wasn’t going to let him off extra-duties, though. I was no fool.

   Most of all, though, I saw something other than him, just like I did the day before. Some hot-headed punk whose words always came at least an hour before his thoughts. A violent thug who still, somewhere, deep-down, held his principles close to his chest like it was a second ribcage.

   _Was I ever that smug, though. I fuckin’ hope not…_

“Go on,” I said, flicking my nose towards the others. “Now ain’t the time to talk about that. Get yerself another beer.”

   Tommy grinned and lifted his head. “Sure, thing, Sarge!”

   My head didn’t often go into streams of thought. I never thought of myself as a thoughtful guy. Something about him, though, keep my mind spinning like the wheels of a Hot Rod. I kept my eyes on him as he got another Bud out of the fridge beside the wall and cracked it open. He realised that I was watching him. “Problem, Sarge?” He asked after a glug of beer.

   “Just curious,” I muttered. “What do yer parents do? They around?”

   He was perplexed, but he shrugged and replied. “Momma’s still livin’ in Lousiana. She works down in this little restaurant. BeeKees, or somethin’…  She does alright, you know, never comes beggin’ to me. I see her once or twice a year, maybe Christmas and durin’ the Summer. Poppa died when I was eight. It was a car accident.”

   “Right.” I said. I reached into my pocket and retrieved from it a pack of cigarettes.

   “Why’d you ask?”

   I shrugged and pulled a cyclinder apart from the rest, raising it to my lips. “Just curious, is all. I’m goin’ for a smoke.”

   He went back to the others while I quenched my thirst for nicotine outside the front door. I had a lot to think about, and when I needed to think, I needed to smoke. I got through a pack a month, usually.

   What would I have done? I knew pretty well, and honestly it wasn’t much different. It made me wonder why I despised that smug asshole so much. I sensed a weaseliness about him that I would never describe myself with, I guess. He was a squirmer. A snivelling little cocksucker. But, goddamn, he reminded me so much of myself. I told myself that I’d grown up, though, and I’d matured, but like Dad always said: _You’ll always be a hot-headed little asshole, Colin!_

   I laughed at that recurring memory. Dad was straight as an arrow, and just as painful when he hit you.

   I brought my thinking back on track as the embers of the cigarette started to heat my fingers. Hutton would get what was coming. Nobody sends a fellow soldier down like he did without an ass-whoopin’. He could butter me up all he wanted, but I wasn’t that dumb.

   I flicked the cigarette butt from my fingertips and watched as the tiny red glow span away into the black night of the San Bernardino desert. It splashed into the sand and died away, but before I could turn away to the door, I saw something else. It was a glow just as tiny and insignificant, but that shit was blue. It was level to the ground, too.

   I’d looked at the maps before we set off for the place, so I knew that there was nothing around that would give off line. No transmitter stations or other outposts around, at least not to the north where I was facing.

   It didn’t seem to be too far away. Maybe it was some equipment left behind from an exercise. It could have been something left by some damn travellers. Whatever it was, it was my duty to check, just in case it was a danger in some way. It was also an excuse for another cigarette. Being curious was technically thinking, right?

   There was a handheld flashlight just inside the door that I grabbed, so with that in one hand and my cigarette in the other, I was ready to investigate. The flashlight shone over bumpy sand mounds and Yuccas, but it wasn’t powerful enough to see right up to the blue speck in the distance.

   I flashed my light in its direction, and it vanished. Not even pulling the shine of my flashlight away brought the blue back. That meant that somebody must be over there, controlling that thing.

   Dad always told me to carry protection around for just these kinda situations. I tapped at my pants, and sure enough the solid metal block of a flick knife was there. If it was just some punk kid, I could scare him away easy without needing to show it.

   Because the blue light was gone, I had to try to remember where it came from. I stepped slowly, swinging my flashlight over the ground for any machinery or device that could have caused it. Soon enough, I’d finished my cigarette and dropped it down onto the sand. Looking back, I’d travelled at least a couple hundred yards, the cabin looking pretty tiny from over here.

   It was time to give up. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. _Damn, I hated that prick! Always making me do stupid things for no reason._

So I headed back with a thirst for more Bud. It was nearly time to rack out, anyway. Whatever that blue light came from would have to wait for some other gullible shit to come along.

   Halfway back, about a hundred meters from the door, it crossed my mind to check just one last time for that blue light, and glanced over my shoulder. There it was again.

   “The fuck…?” I uttered. This light was messing with me.

   This time, I fixed my bearings and gazed directly at it. I kept the shine of the flashlight low to the ground just so that I didn’t trip over anything, and slowly, quietly moved toward it.

   The light went out again, but this time I kept in a straight line to where I knew it was coming from. Sooner or later, I’d bump into it. I pulled the knife out of my pocket and prepped it. I wasn’t taking chances with whoever was fucking with me.

   I went further this time. I must have been four-hundred yards from the cabin. The light couldn’t have been far. I hunkered down behind a Yucca, and I turned off my flashlight. In total darkness, maybe that blue light would flash up again, so I waited in absolute silence.

   Must have been about two minutes… I thought for a while that I’d passed it, but sure enough, my patience paid off. That little glow came up again, but this time it was much, much clearer. It cast blue shadows around it, but they were striped in the shape of a Yucca’s leaves. Dead ahead, I saw the guilty plant, and I cautiously edged towards it. The spot of light was coming from within it.

   I came right up to that Yucca plant. The source of blue light was only small, but it was blindingly bright. I hovered my flashlight over it, and the blue instantly switched off again. This time there was no escape, though. Buried between the leaves was a tiny little machine. It looked like some weird camera, and it was strapped around the plant’s stem.

   Funny thing was, it had weird scribbles on it, like drawings, and it was shaped like a rounded football with the light and a lens at one end. It didn’t look like any camera I’d seen before. Definitely not in Army stocks.

   _Damn command’s been spyin’ on us!_ I thought to myself. _Why else would they have a camera aimed at us? This ain’t a welfare cabin at all!_

   I thought better than to mess with it. If it really was part of the procedure, then I didn’t want to make ourselves look worse by messing with it. It was time to head back to that Bud, after all.

   _Cra-ack…_

I swang my arm back around! It collided with whatever had whipped up from behind me, and my flashlight was forced from me. I clutched hard on my knife and swiped it, but missed! In the shine of the flashlight on the ground I saw a hoof stomp down, like that of a small horse or a mule, but it was only a millisecond before I had to stare back into the darkness to find the faintest silhouette of my attacker. I barrelled forward, crashing my chest against the enemy before it could strike again, and I thrust the knife into warm flesh. Something soft thumped against my the back of my head, but it didn’t throw me off.

   I pushed hard, grappling against what I thought was the attacker’s neck, holding my knife into its torso. The creature went down with me on top of it. A hand tugged grabbed at mine and tried to pull away the knife, but the hand was weak and I held it in place as ooze trickled over my fingers. The soft thing bounced against my head again with some force, and I saw its shadow whip back around. I saw on the end of it what looked like a huge blade. It looked fucking dangerous, and it swang wildly in panic. What the hell was this thing?!

   That whip came back, and I rolled sideways to avoid the bladed bit, only to be knocked by the soft length of it again. Before he could bring it back around, I released his neck and grabbed onto that whip instead, just below the blade. It struggled and fought, but I pulled it down and forced it against the attacker’s throat. My other hand still wrestled with his for the knife.

   “I’ll bury it in your fuckin’ skull, shithead!” I yelled into its silhouette head.

   ((Don’t! Have mercy!))

   It was… in my head?! What the hell was that?!

   In one quick movement, I released the whip, pulled back a fist and smashed the attacker around the face. He struggled, so I hit him again. This time, he fell limp. His hand stopped struggling, and the whip lay silent over his chest. In my head, I heard faint groans.

   I pulled out the knife and jumped back up. “Fucker!” I screamed at him, so ready to go in for a final blow. But I was curious. What the hell just attacked me?

   I scuttled over to the flashlight and lifted it. The attacker came into clear, undeniable view, and, boy, was I shocked.

   His bloodied, woozy face was mouthless. It didn’t have a mouth… Not even a hole. It had something that looked a little like a nose though, but… not really. The only thing normal was that it had two eyes.

   Oh wait… no it didn’t.

   And then there was the body. It was like one of those things in mythology. Those things with a Human upper-body and a horse’s ass. On top of that ass was the whip thing. It was a tail, and it had a mean-looking blade at the end.

   It was blue, too. That was the least-shocking thing.

   “The fuck are you?” I growled, circling around it to get a better view, and make sure it wasn’t just some ugly Halloween costume.

   It spoke in my head again. It was like that telepathy you hear about in TV shows. ((You’re… a monster!))

   “Hey, fuck you!” I retorted. “This is Earth, dick! I ain’t the fuckin’ monster ‘round here! Don’t move or I’ll slice you up and send you to Nevada. I hear they’re fond-a your type there.”

   ((You… you hit me!)) He whined. ((I’m bleeding!))

   I saw a deep gash down his hip where I’d stuck him with my knife. His finger gently prodded at it. Seven fingers, or I was drunk…

   “What are you?!” I demanded, stomping above him. “Ugly piece-a shit!”

   ((I need to get to my medical station! I’m bleeding heavily. You foolish Human!)) He shrieked, shuffling his legs as if preparing to get up. I kicked at his lower body, and he recoiled in pain.

   “Shouldn’t’ve come at me, freak,” I chuckled with deliberate cruelty. “If one of us is dyin’, it sure ain’t me!”

   ((I didn’t intend to kill you, dull-witted Human!)) He yelped. ((I couldn’t have you interrupting my cameras!))

   “Cameras, huh?” I huffed and stepped back to the Yucca. I yanked the small football-shaped camera from its perch, dropped it on the sand before him and stomped hard on it with the heel of my boot to a satisfying crack. “You ain’t seein’ anythin’ here.”

   ((My camera!)) He whined. ((Human, you don’t understand my intentions!))

   I laughed. “What intentions? You gonna abduct me? Come on then, abduct me. I fuckin’ dare ya!”

   ((Don’t be so imbecilic!))

   “Huh?”

   ((Stupid. It means stupid,)) He groaned. ((Must I explain myself in terms so basic the invertebrates can understand?))

   “The what?” This freak was trying to play some word game. I wasn’t buying it.

   ((I am the only one protecting you!)) He blasted with pained anger, clutching at his wounded side. ((You want to continue with a life worth living? Help me back to my shuttle!))

   I was a little more cautious now. “What are you talkin’ ‘bout?”

   ((Your fellow Humans are about to be taken. If you help me, I can make sure that you _aren’t.))_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**III**

   I swung my backpack over the fence of Ms Garrett’s backyard, and followed along afterwards, thudding down onto her front lawn and almost knocking over her stone bird bath.

   I heard her muffled voice shout after me. She must have seen me from her kitchen window. “I saw that, Santorelli! If I see you in my backyard again, I’ll be telling your father!”

   “You think he cares?!” I called back, lugging my backpack over my shoulder and marching over her lawn and onto the empty street. Ms Garrett’s house was opposite to mine. It was much quicker to cross through her property than go around, and it brought me right in line with the front gate to my own home. I reached ahead when I arrived and grabs at the latch…

   “ _RUFF! Ruff ruff_!”

   The gate was buffeted as if with a sledgehammer, and the barks preceded a lot of growling and gnashing of teeth. The black bulldog jumped up against – or into – the gate with the ferocity I’d come to expect every time I came home.

   “Get down, Buster! Stupid dog!” I barked back. I forced up the latch and forced myself inside while he pounded the gate like it was a sweaty leg. When I’d stepped fully onto the lawn, he decided instead to sprint away to the door, still barking like it meant anything. He jumped over a few scattered possessions that he been left to deal with the weather all year round.

   I caught up as he started to scratch at the door, begging to be let inside. I breached the shadow of the Stars and Stripes that swirled overhead and pushed into the house, making way for Buster who just always had to go first.

   “Go sit down, Buster,” I groaned. “I oughta kick your ass, boy.”

   He grinned up and me, and I couldn’t stay sore at him for acting like an idiotic. That’s what dogs do, right? At least they had some character.

   “Hey, Dad!” I shouted into the confined, dark hallway. “I’m home!”

   I didn’t get an answer. He must have been busy. I flung my backpack onto an old chair that had been hired as a storage space, barely recognisable under a big pile of old coats that we hardly used. The pile almost blocked the framed painting of Washington that was hung on the wall. (It was fake, obviously. Dad traded a beer for it.)

   The coat stand waited to the side. Mom’s hat wasn’t there, so she wasn’t home. Whatever.

   “Hey, Buster,” I said, realising that he may be the only source of company. “Your day been as shit as mine?”

   He panted at me. I knew he wasn’t listening, but that just made it easier.

   “Yeah, I thought so. Ain’t nobody ‘round to throw you no balls. All you do is lick your own, huh?”

   He panted some more.

   I smiled and reached down to the floor where, among the other assorted debris, there was an old baseball with all kinds of stains on it. I took aim at the open doorway leading to the kitchen and launched the hard projectile. Buster went after it like a rocket, and two crashes followed, one after the other. Didn’t sound like anything broke this time, though.

“Been waitin’ for that all day, ain’t ya boy?” I spoke after him. I got no response, and nor did he charge back to me with a ball coated in dog slobber.

   Alone again, only my bedroom called for me. I had a _Lee_ model to finish painting – not anywhere as cool as the _Hellcat_ – and some damn science homework that was three days overdue… Ahh, like Mr Humpkin even cared. Fuck that. Model it was.

   My feet caught onto yesterday’s pants when I strolled in, and I kicked them to the side where the rest of it lay. Beside the messy bed, my desk was glorified with the half-painted tank as a centrepiece, two paint brushes at attention to the side. I pulled out the rotting wooden chair and placed myself at my second favourite toy, who just begged to join the platoon I had lined up with perfection on the shelves above the bed.

   It took me for maybe half an hour. I did all the work on the tank treads, and then my hand started to get sore as I strived for precision. I thought to loosen them up a bit, got up, and grabbed my three darts from the edge of the desk, each fanned with the shining national flag. I backed up against the windowsill that was bare of decoration but coated in random splashes of paint, and aimed at the brand new dartboard Dad had bought me for my birthday, placed between the shelves and my Confederate flag, and above my bed.

   I rarely ever got bullseye, but that never stopped me trying. Today, I just wasn’t hitting it, no matter how destined the darts seemed to be for that sweet solid circle. It hit once, but bounced back off and almost stabbed my big toe through my faded black socks.

   Darts got boring real quick. I always found a way to spice it up though, and dug into a pile of old pictures, each of which was peppered with dart wounds. I found today’s victim, and jumped up onto the bed to pin the image of the grey space alien with bulging black eyes to the board. I bounced back to my position and took aim.

   “The aliens have landed, Sarge!” I hush-shouted to the imaginary Sergeant watching closely from behind. “Don’t worry, Santorelli’s got their number. I’ll pop their ugly eyes out!”

   I went to unleash the dart, but I stopped myself. The allure of the national flag that draped lazily over my bedpost to the left was too strong to do without. I delayed fire and took it, tying the ends around my neck so the flag adorned me like the cape of a superhero.

   From the corner of my mouth, and with a deep voice, I said. “ _Private Santorelli, you’ve been promoted to General. Go fight those aliens, General!”_

   “Yes, sir!” I called back with glee, and launched the first patriotic arrow forward. It stuck with a thump into the aliens cheek.

   “Reload! Reload!” I rolled the next dart into my throwing hand, and threw it with the sounds of rifles running from my head and spilling out of my mouth. I caught the sorry son-of-a-bitch in the eye.

    _“Good shootin’, General!”_

I had one more shot, and I’d send those ugly fuckers back to the shithole they came from. I took aim, staring over the barrel of my projectile. I brought it back, and…!

   The dart left my hand as my bedroom door burst open behind me! My trailing fingers caught the fan of the dart, and it careened to the side. It bounced against the wall and down onto the shelf where the platoon was standing guard. The impact sent those brave soldiers in all directions like a bomb had gone off, many scattering onto the bed below.

   Dad had arrived completely unannounced. He took one scanning look over the bedroom, and then glared at me like I’d unloaded his rifle into his drinks cabinet. “What the fuck’s been goin’ on in here, boy?!”

   I put aside my despair for the fallen for the moment to defend what I knew was indefensible. “Nothin’, Dad! Just throwin’ some arrows!”

   He kicked at the pile of clothing that clogged the floor. “What did I tell you about cleanin’ your goddamn room, boy?!”

   “Gimme a chance, Dad!” I argued. “I just got back from school!”

   “School, huh?” He replied, crossing his bulky arms across his chest. “You don’t wanna talk to me about school, that’s for sure.”

   I groaned loudly and dropped against the side of my bed, beginning the task of rescuing my fallen soldiers. “Before you say anythin’, Ms Thomson always hated me.”

   “I wonder why,” He said, unfettered by my disclaimer. “This is the fifth time this year, and I’ve just about had enough of this bullcrap, boy! You been copyin’ work in class?!”

   “No way, Dad!”

   His eyes bulged, and he bore his lower teeth. “You been copyin’ work in class?!” He repeated, louder.

   “Math is hard, Dad! I don’t get any of it! I’m gonna fail no matter what!”

   “That’s not the point, boy. If you’re gonna fail, you’re gonna fail with pride. That’s how I raised you! Now, you gonna gimme more backchat or do I gotta slap you ‘round the head again?!”

   “No, sir…” I groaned pitiably.

   “Good. Back when I was a boy, you’d be lucky with a slap ‘round the head. This society’s gone soft. Come with me, boy, you’re punishment is to help me with the jars. Got ourselves a raccoon this mornin’.”

   I slumped and grumbled, “How’s that gonna help my learnin’?”

   “It’ll teach you to stop being a disobedient little pest!” He replied as he stepped back out into the hallway. “Come on now.”

   I saluted my fallen soldiers before recovering them from the battlefield. I didn’t have time to put all the pieces back together. They were left in a messy pile for me to attend later, ‘cos Dad wouldn’t take my delaying any longer. I rushed off after him, hesitating to remove the flag from around my neck.

   Buster was eager to play when he met me at the bottom of the stairs, but all he got was a ruffling on the head and a solitary, “Good boy.” He wasn’t allowed in the basement, so I had to shuffle my way in, just as I had done when I came through the front gate to the yard. Buster always wanted to explore where it just weren’t worth exploring.

   The basement was Dad’s room. He slept there, but it’s where all his stuff was, too. His guns lined the walls, and the gaps between were decorated with all his favourite flags. His clothes were hung on a rack in the corner, just behind an ironing board that had been nailed into the floor, and they were all the same shade of combat-green. In the center of the room was a great big snooker table, its surface spotless; spotless as the rest of the place.

   It’s what he expected of _my_ room, too. The rest of the house could go to hell.

   My purpose for coming to the basement was not to clean, or play snooker or iron his clothes. Dad had developed a hobby from a young age, and it weren’t anything usual. He liked to take dead animals and preserve them in jars. Sometimes people bought them; small museums or people who were just into the kind of creepy stuff. Most of them, he kept, and they had a special place on a shelf near his bed, lined up perfectly in single-file.

   There was a preparation table. It was metal, and it had knife racks and big jars full of chemicals that he used to keep the dead things looking alive. It shone under a dedicated light bulb that brought up everything in gory detail.  A new jar glistened, awaiting the big hunk of fur that was strewn beside it. Dad took his place behind the table and beckoned me over.

   “Eric told me this raccoon been sniffin’ around his trash every mornin’,” He explained. “Well, that ain’t happenin’ no more. I want this thing cosied-up and sealed by dinner. Understood?”

   I stepped on over and looked down it the creature. The blood on its midriff had long since dried, but the thing still stank to high heaven. It was a bulky ol’ thing, too.

   “But, Dad,” I said. “This raccoon’s too big for the jar.”

   “You know the drill. Keep the head. That’s the part that counts. Any more questions?”

   I grabbed the largest knife from the rack, and sought out some rubber gloves from a cardboard container nearby. I shook my head; I had no more questions.

   Dad left me alone in the basement, and Lord knows where he went. I sighed, squeezed on my rubber gloves and got a firm hold of the raccoon’s neck. Down came the knife, and I sawed through that neck like it was a loaf of bread.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

   <I need to morph. Foolish Human! You’ve injured me!>

   This thing wasn’t like the aliens I saw in movies. It didn’t have a big round head with massive black eyes. No, it was even weirder. But it was talking to me, and it didn’t sound like it was about to come rushing at me. It was moaning and groaning like my old Geography teacher back in school. I could have kicked the shit outta the alien, right there and then, but I don’t kick a man when he’s down. I guess that extends to aliens that speak English, too.

   “Need to what?” I asked.

   <Morph!> He growled. <Mo- oh… Ah, yes, you won’t be familiar. It will allow me to get rid of this injury you’ve caused with your tomfoolery.>

   “You better start makin’ some sense soon.” I warned him.

   He started to get up, but he still held at his torso in pain, and he stumbled when he was finally on four alien hooves. <I notice that you’re very thick-headed, so a lot of what I say will be confusing. Unfortunately, you were not meant to find me…>

   “Your darn right,” I replied. “So if you don’t start yammerin’ soon, you’ll be takin’ a cosy little trip over to Nevada. Heard they got a nice place for your kind.”

   <Area 51, I assume,> He said. <Was that meant to be a joke? I don’t belong with Skrit Na, thank you very much.>

   “… What?”

   He flicked a hand, before bringing it back down to massage his side when the action caused him further pain. <I’m going to morph. That involves turning into another creature, and then I will change back. Don’t run away, though. I cannot have you telling other Humans about my presence.>

   “You’re gonna do what?” None of this made any goddamn sense. And he thought I’d take orders from him?!

   Yet, I felt I needed to. This was all too weird, and if he was going to play ball, I wanted to know as much as he could tell me. _Just play along a little while, Santorelli. Maybe the alien freak knows somethin’…_

   <Remember, don’t run off.> He reminded. Then, just like he said, he began to change.

   In all my life, I’d never seen anything this weird. And I’d seen Turnbull’s porn collection.

   He started the change by getting back down to the ground and lying on his side. He cursed his injury, and for a moment I thought he was just feeling weak. But then I saw that his arms were starting to shrink. It came with a sick noise, like thick liquid slurping up a straw.

   I recoiled. From what little I could see in the shadows cast by my flashlight, the arms were not only shrinking; they were disappearing entirely! Then I looked down, and the horse legs were doing exactly the same.

   “The fuck is this shit?!”

   <Patience, Human,> He replied. <It’s all part of the process.>

   “It’s fuckin’ weird, man!”

   He didn’t care to reply, and the weird alien just kept on changing. The blue fur all over its body left when the legs were all but gone, and he looked more like a bean than an alien monster right about then. I was mighty relieved when the blade thing on the end of his tail got all blunted, but it was that very tail that gave away the biggest clue of what he was changing into. It went all bumpy, tapering to the tip with bulbous scaled.

   Son of a bitch was turning into a rattler!

   The stalks on his head disappeared, and so did his eyelids. This was the sorta stuff horror movies did, only with plasticine and cheap suits. B-movie stuff, like what my Dad used to watch.

   Then the scales spread all over his body, all while he got smaller and smaller until he was true rattler size.

   I knew rattlers were dangerous, so I took a firmer grip on my flashlight. I could use it as a weapon if I needed to.

   <There, I have finished.>

   “What kinda sick magic is this?” I demanded.

   <It is highly-advanced Andalite technology.>

   “Light technology? This some kinda light trick?”

   The rattler flickered his tongue calmly, and coiled up into a circle. < _Andalite_ technology. I am an Andalite.>

   “That’s what they call you, huh?” I uttered. “You gonna change back? I don’t like the way yer flickin’ that tongue at me…”

   <Yes. My wounds will be healed. Please refrain from stabbing me in the future.>

   “Can’t make promises…”

   I had to watch that same sickening process all over again. I gritted my teeth to bear it, because I wouldn’t take the risk of looking away. Far as I was concerned, this thing could strike me dead in a second.

   When he was finished, the stabbing wound had gone like it never existed. He stood on those four horse legs and gazed at me, expecting some kind of reaction.

   “That’s too fuckin’ weird…” I gasped.

   <I thought you would say something like that. Now, what to do about you…>

   “What to do about me?! Question is: What do I do about _you_?!” I responded.

   <Let me give the issue to you as a string of facts, Human:> He spoke, as if opening up a high school lecture.. <Fact 1: My race is not known to you Humans, except for those under control of the Yeerks. Fact 2: I cannot be seen by you Humans, or my surveillance task will be halted and I will be reprimanded by my superiors. Fact 3: You are Human. Fact 4: You have seen me. Fact 5: My surveillance mission is designed to _help_ your race from the Yeerk Invasion. Given these facts, do you understand why I would be concerned about how I deal with you?>

   He laid it out pretty simply, to his credit. “So what? You gonna kill me?”

   <It would be the most logical option.> He replied nonchalantly.

   “Mind if I lay out my own little string-a facts?”

   He waved a hand. <I don’t mind at all.>

   “Okay,” I cleared my throat. “Fact 1: You’re a fuckin’ space alien. Fact 2: You ain’t killin’ me. And Fact 3: …. Well, that’s it, actually.”

   He folded his arms and leaned to one side. He still looked pretty terrifying in the bright flashlight. <I do not wish to kill you, Human.>

   “Wouldn’t be able to if you tried, freak.” I commented.

   <Let me finish! You’re so volatile…> He grumbled. <Carrying on: I don’t wish to kill you, Human, but I can’t trust you enough to allow you to leave… Maybe if I…> He let that hang, and his two main eyes turned away thoughtfully.

   “Maybe if you what?” I pressed.

   His eyes came back to mine, and they were turned up. I could only guess that he was smiling. He thrust out a hand, a little speedier than I was comfortable with, and it waited. <My name is Lanifal-Gerfilin-Jaxor. It’s a pleasure to meet you!>

   The fuck was this?! I stared at him, feeling my eyes narrow quizzically.

   He pushed his hand a little further forward. <Go on… Do the thing Humans do…>

   “What the hell are you doing?” I asked, completely thrown off.

   <I’m trying to act friendly in order to gain your trust! Mutual trust will be the best way out of our predicament, besides one of us dying. What’s your name, fellow carbon-based lifeform?>

   “My name is none of your business,” I grumbled. “Now cut the shit.”

   His hand dropped, and so did his expression. <You’re very disagreeable, None. Very well, we shall gain mutual trust begrudgingly. I suppose you’ll be wanting to know why I’m surveying the area?>

   “That’d be mighty useful.” I said.

   He took another moment to consider. He was reluctant to say what was about to be said. <If you follow me, I can take you to the hideout. I can show you more precisely what it is I do.>

   I chuckled. “This the probin’ part? I tell you what, Lenny, or whatever your name is, how about you quit the bullshit and just tell me here?”

   <Probing? I’m not so primitive, my Human friend. If you’re that paranoid about it, I will allow you to tie my tail around my leg. That way, I will be unarmed.>

   I thought about it for a moment. It definitely _was_ the most intimidating part of him. “Yeah, okay. Do it.”

   By the time I was reaching into my pants to pull out the string that was always kept for emergencies, he’d pulled a lengthy bit of rope from the Yucca plant where he kept his camera. He lay down on his side again, and twisted back around to start tying the end of his tail to his right hind leg. The sturdy little rope was knotted tightly, but looking at his puny little arms, and then the muscly tail, I wasn’t too convinced of its durability.

   The Andalite seemed to notice my uncertainty. He yanked his tail twice and it remained attached to his leg. <You don’t look satisfied.>

   “No way, man,” I replied. “Those twigs you call arms ain’t gonna do it enough for me.”

   <If you think you’re so much more capable, _you_ tighten it.> He insisted.

   I judged the situation. That evil-looking blade didn’t have much room for manoeuvre… Maybe if I just-

   <Ow!> He squeaked.

   I held his blade down firmly with my chunky right boot, and with both hands pulled tightly on the knot.

   <Ah! Too tight!> He yelped, squirming his legs. The blade twitched beneath my sole.

   _Now_ I was satisfied. I jumped back off of his blade and stood to the side. Now his tail was truly out of action.

He snarled and clumsily started to stand back up. <I didn’t mean you could tighten it to the point where my tail rots from lack of blood flow. You have a sadistic mind, my Human friend!>

   “I just want to be safe, man,” I said back calmly. “That’s a nasty ol’ tail you got. I don’t wanna lose an arm.”

   <I could say the same for those boots of yours,> He grumbled. <Now it is I who feels unsafe.>

   I laughed, kicking one at the sand. “Scared of a pair-a boots, now? Some alien _you_ are.”

   <If I disarm myself, I would feel much safer if you did the same,> He said. <I think it’s important if we are to build mutual trust.>

   He was being serious, I guess. “You want me to take these off, huh?”

   <It would be appreciated.>

   “You realise I have a knife, right?” I thought to mention. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t use my boots.”

   <You can leave that knife behind as well, then.>

   I took the knife out of my pocket and turned it in the glow of the flashlight. “So I leave myself completely defenceless…”

   <We will _both_ be defenceless. Isn’t that the point? You Humans are so difficult.>

   I shrugged. “Well, those legs-a yours don’t look so pretty.”

   His stalk eyes glanced to his hind legs. <I have one usable leg. What am I supposed to do with _that_?!>

   I put my knife back into my pocket, and replaced my box of cigarettes in my hand. I flicked out a stick, dropped the box back in my pocket and pulled up a lighter. While lighting the cigarette, I said, "My cousin Marv got kicked by a mule once. Went blind for three days, and he’s been pretty dumb since.”

   <You’re calling me an infertile Ungulate hybrid now?> He moaned.

   “Alls I’m saying is that your leg don’t look like a bouquet of flowers! Now I wanna feel safe around you, so, I dunno… Tie it around yer midsection.”

   <You can’t be serious…>

   I inhaled on my cigarette and took it out between two fingers. “If I drop my knife and my boots, you do that.”

   He turned in consideration, and then exhaled in annoyance. <Fine. But disarm yourself first.>

   I squatted down and undid the laces on my boots. All the while, I kept watch on him, but all he did was stare at me patiently. I removed both boots, and dropped the knife from my pocket into one of them. I stood up on thick socks, just enough to protect my bare skin from whatever was on the desert ground.

   “Your turn.” I told him.

   <Is it really that necessary to->

   “ _Your turn.”_ I insisted. I took the thick string that I’d sought earlier and approached him. Reluctantly, he got back down and raised his free hindlimb to his midsection. I worked quickly to wrap the string around, tightly knotting it at the ends so that his remaining hindlimb was unmovable.     

   <Infuriating…> He uttered, tugging at his restrained limbs when he struggled to stand up.

   “That’s how it’s gotta be.” I reminded him.

   He shook his arms, which was probably a good sign that he was annoyed. <Alright, Human. Follow me. I’ll take you to the hideout.>

   He lurched forward, but partially disabled, he stumbled hard to the ground with a pained yelp.

   “Hey man, I’ve got, I dunno… six hours?”

   <Patience!> He grumbled. <You would cope far worse in the same situation, with those two ugly Human legs…>

   The alien got up again, but it wasn’t convincing. He managed to start hobbling forwards, and I followed him about five feet behind, keeping a close eye on every movement. Sand crept between my toes, occasionally with a stone or some dead plant matter. I made sure to flick the ashes of my cigarette far to the side.

   The Andalite fell again, and this time crashed down onto a nearby Yucca plant.

   “Jesus…” I groaned. “You still got three workin’ legs! Clumsy piece-a shit, aren’t you?”

   I stepped to the side to maintain the distance from him, but my foot came down on something far different from coarse sand. It came down hard on what must have been a spiky plant, like a cactus or something like that. It hurt bad, and quick. I recoiled the very moment I felt the spines bury into the soles of my feet like a hundred needless.

   “Fuck!” I instinctively grabbed for it and bounced on my one remaining leg. The momentum carried me the other way, and the uninjured foot crashed against a rock. I tumbled down into the sand, groaning and clutching at where the blood was fast spilling.

   <Not so easy, is it?> I heard the Andalite say.

   “Fuck you…” I replied. “If I hadn’t taken my damn boots off…”

   <If _I_ hadn’t tied my leg to my abdomen…>

   I sighed, still massaging my foot as the pain grew duller. I felt like a total tool. Looking at him, he probably felt the same way.

   “Look, man, if I untie you, I’ll put my boots back on.” I said.

   <That sounds reasonable.> He replied.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

   The Andalite led me a couple hundred metres further away from the cabin, where I’m sure my absence would be getting noticed. I warned Lennet-… Lanni-… Lenny that they might come searching, but he wasn’t going to willingly let me go until he was assured that I would say nothing. I promised that I wouldn’t, but I didn’t truly mean it.

   This was going straight to Command as soon as I was out of here. I just had to know a little more. I wanted to know what this centaur alien was capable of before I brought the might of the military down on his hairy blue ass.

   Until that moment, I was Mr Trustworthy.

   His hideout was a small bunker surrounded by inconspicuous shrubbery. It was also covered by sand. Entirely. When he approached the small mound and told me that we’d arrived, I assumed he was pulling my leg. “You serious?” I asked him.

   “Would you be more surprised if my secretive little hideout was sticking up twenty feet in the air?” He grumbled. Then, somewhere out of my flashlight’s view, he fidgeted quietly with some device, and there came three subtle bleeps. A muffled mechanical whir followed that, and suddenly the mound of sand was gradually rising upwards! It spilled over the sides of a dome lid like a waterfall, and blocked most of my flashlight beam as I shone it forwards to get a better view of the innards.

   The black lid, something like three metres wide, stopped just above our head. It would barely be seen over the surrounding shrubbery, especially in the dark. It was held up by a thick pillar, and at our feet rose a ramp, covered in what looked like rubbery black grass. Lenny took a steady step onto it.

   <The hideout is buried beneath ground for security. Don’t feel threatened. I feel that we’ve already established mutual peace.>

   “You got it,” I replied. “I’ll be right behind you. Just watch that tail o’ yours.”

   The Andalite stepped deeper, and my flashlight followed him as he descended the spiralling ramp. When he’d moved far enough that his head was below ground level, I took one last look around the horizon of desert, and followed.

   The grass was like the synthetics stuff they used on the basketball court back in the base, and it was sloped gradually. I kept my distance behind him, and stopped when he did. The lid of the hideout began to descend again.

   <You won’t need your portable light source anymore.> Lenny said.

   I understood, but I waited anyway. The lid came to a halt, enclosing us in a pure black. Seconds later, the hideout’s lighting began to awaken. There were circular white lights spread around like polka dots. I turned off the flashlight when I could see as much as I would need if a fight broke out.

   The place was claustrophobic. Surrounded by black walls and the white lighting… there wasn’t much else to speak of except the layout of the walls. We’d arrived in an enclave at the side of a narrow corridor that went left and right.

   “Pretty cool, I guess.” I said to Lenny, leaning forward to glance down the corridor.

   <I hate it down here,> He uttered. <Andalites are meant for open spaces. Open skies. I have to hunker down here for an indefinite time until my superiors are satisfied.>

   “Are they ever?”

   <No.>

   I waved a hand in the direction of the corridor. “So what’s so important for me to see? I see black walls. Nothin’ else.”

   <Thank you for reminding me…> He tapped his hooves against the floor like I would scrape my boots on a doormat and walked down the corridor to the left. <My living quarters are not of interest to you. Down here is the workstation. I move from left to right, every day, from work to sleep, sleep to work…>

   I rolled my eyes and followed. “Yeah, yeah, same thing I hear from everybody, dude. Guess you aliens ain’t no different.”

   The corridor opened quickly out onto a circular room. It was a little more brightly lit, but mostly by the screens that decorated the furthest edge of the wall. The was a podium in the centre, facing them, and shining up from it was a perfectly detailed image of the local area. He took me right up to it, and in the flickering purple image I could see the sand and greenery that told the whole story of the Mojave. Looking closer, I could see the exact bush where I’d found the camera. Judging from that, I suspected that he had a range of up to a mile.

   Aside from the details, it was impressive stuff. Command would kill for this kinda tech.

   “So this is it, huh? What, you just sit here an’ stare at cameras all day?”

   He glared at me with all four eyes. That didn’t happen often. <Are you determined to remind me of how terrible my job is in every aspect and at every given opportunity?>

   “Hey, man, just sayin’!” I said, holding my arms out defensively. “So what you lookin’ for?”

   <Yeerks,> He replied. <They have a pool here. I’m keeping track of activity before the bulk of the force arrives.>

   “Yeerks…” I replied. Feeling something important approaching, I reached into my jacket pocket to pull out my small waterproof writing pad. I unstrapped the pencil from the elastic on the side, flipped through a few filled pages, and held it out flat when I found a blank one. “Yeerk…” I repeated, writing it scruffily down. _Yurk._

   Lenny watched my pad with one swivelling stalk eye. <I don’t think you’ll need to write this down. I should be quite memorable.>

   I shook my head sternly. “Nope. Nuh-uh. I’ve always been forgetful. If I need to remember somethin’, I write it down.”

   Lenny folded his arms. <Very well. Are you ready?>

   My pencil was pointed to the page, one line down from _Yurk._ “Just hurry the fuck up, would ya?” I insisted.

   <The Yeerks are a parasitic race th->

   “Wait, hold on,” I stopped him, my pencil digging into the paper where the word’s complexity had blocked it. “They’re what?”

   <A parasitic race.>

   I wrote it down, careful enough to spell it as correctly as I could but without it looking any neater than usual. “… Race… Okay, got it.”

   He glared at me like I was inconveniencing him. Then, he continued. <They are a parasitic race that is on the brink of enslaving your entire planet. They have control over numerous governments worldwide, and are intent on taking the world’s most powerful military forces.>

   “What does parasitic mean?”

   <Am I going to have to explain basic words to you, Human?>

   “Just give it to me in simple terms, man!” I told him. “I ain’t no scientist!”

   <Okay, simple terms…> He relented begrudgingly. <The Yeerks take over your body. Everybody you love will either die or leave you forever. Are you suitably perturbed now?>

   “Suitably _what_?!”

   <Put it this way: Your fellows bipeds in this military establishment are currently being taken hostage by the Yeerks, one-by-one. I estimate that a third already have a Yeerk slug in their heads.>

   My notepad scribbling had stopped a couple sentences ago. Maybe he was right about me not needing to write it down. “Nah. No way, man,” I replied with a dismissive chuckle. “I think I’d know if a third of Fort Irwin had disappeared, let alone the big guns in HQ…”

   “You _wouldn’t_ know,” He retorted firmly. “The Yeerks take over your brain, in turn controlling your physical actions entirely. The host is not required to disappear. They pose as their host, and flaws in their pretence are incredibly rare.”

   I actually wrote that down, in more concise words. If anybody else, other than an ugly blue-furred centaur alien, had said the same thing, I wouldn’t have believed them. Seeing an alien like him made his story a little more believable.

   He continued, <Many Earth governments have been taken over by the Yeerks, and are operating in their interests. Human hosts are increasing exponentially…. Quickly, and growing quicker over time.>

   “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I get it.”

   <And they’re here now. This particular part of your planet has a lot of influence, and it’s of great interest to the Yeerks. My job is to scout this area and report back to the fleet before they plan their intervention. I have no pleasure in telling you that the outlook isn’t great.>

   “How’d ya mean?” I pressed.

   <Your race may be too far gone.>

   I didn’t like what he said. Not the way he said it, neither. “Hold on now. _Too far gone_? You’re speakin’ like the whole world’s gonna be deader than a squirrel on a highway in a week, or somethin’. Now, call me a sceptic, but I’m startin’ to think I need to see it to believe it. Seein’ your blue ass can only take my imagination so far.”

   He glanced to the glowing hologram briefly and remained silent. His fingers came forward to tap at the podium’s side, like he was fidgeting while thinking something through. <I could…>

   The guy was being pretty hesitant. I took the moment to start quietly sketching the layout of his base into my notepad. I drew in the podium with the holographic screen, and the other screen that lined the wall. I wrote down where I thought those cameras were hidden, though the thing about deserts is that everything looks pretty much the same… It was educated guessing.

   I drew him, too. I never was good at drawing, but I think I got the gist of it down.

   “You got anythin’ on the cameras?” I asked him.

   Lenny looked up at the screens with one of those creepily flexible stalks with eyes on top. <Yes. Yes, I have. I’m only hesitant because I’m trying to recall what I can and cannot show you.>

   “Yeah, yeah, sure,” I said. “Tell me my whole race is fucked and then tell me I can’t see why.”

   Lenny huffed and curled his hands into flowery little fists. <My position is a tentative one!>

   “Geez, didn’t mean to hurt yer feelin’s…”

   <My feelings are not a part of this,> He stated factually. <I think _you’re_ the one being emotional.>

   “Believe me, you don’t wanna see me emotional.”

   <Well, that’s all I’m hearing. Put aside your tears for a moment, and I’ll search through my database for suitable evidence that’ll show you I’m telling you the full truth.>

   I snorted derisive laugh, and distracted my thrashing mind by drawing more of the base. If I was going to take this fucker down, I’d have to make it as convincing as possible.

   Lenny attended to the podium that spat out the holographic screen. He was completely silent, and he wasn’t even touching anything. And yet, I saw things flickering and adjusting in the image, with scribbles of some language that must have been his own. He did that for a while, and I continued to jot down all the evidence  could. I wrote down exactly where I was. North of The Box. Approximately fifteen-hundred metres north-northwest of the respite cabin.

   <I’ve found some recordings for you,> Lenny finally said. <If you would care to watch, you would see what you need to see.>

   “I’m watchin’.” I said, strapping my pencil back onto the notepad before storing them both away in my jacket pocket.

   The blue screen increased in size about five-fold, so that it took up most of my range of vision. It was pretty bright, too, so I had to squint to keep paying full attention. In good detail, I saw a field of desert. Pretty standard stuff: Yuccas, sand, and distant hills. In the middle of the image though, I could just make out a dip on what was otherwise flat ground, like a tiny meteor had hit. I couldn’t see what was inside.

   Lenny commentated over it. <I have a camera watching over this co-ordinate. It’s been there for two Earth weeks. It’s been monitoring the entrance to the Yeerk Pool on the South side, which is in that dip you see in the centre.>

   “Don’t see much…” I uttered.

   <You’ll see soon… See?... There, there!>

   I watched the dip closely. I saw one… then two, and three. The three heads bobbed on the rim of the crater, before they rose up and over the lip. Three guys in their combat gear, and they looked like they were talking.

   “Okay. Gotcha,” I said, feeling very underwhelmed. “Three guys. Gotta hand it to ya, Lenny, you certainly know suspicious when you see it.”

   <It’s not what you think!> He asserted.

   “Looks like three jack-offs pissin’ in a hole in the ground.” I suggested. “Some invasion you got here.”

   Before I could mock him again, something else moved onto the screen, and it came from the left, moving towards the three guys and to the dip. The three that had emerged stepped to the side to allow its passage, but they weren’t getting all worked up about it. I would have. I’d have been pissin’ my britches.

   The thing was taller than most people I knew. The blades on its head made it look even taller. There were more blades on its arms, legs and tail. It was like something out of some tinfoil hat conspiracy theory, like a lizard alien they talked about in dirty basements with newspaper articles pinned all over the walls. The thing was evil.

   And there was something over its shoulder. As it past the three guys, who looked like they didn’t give the slightest shit, I made out that it was a person. Somebody else in combats. The lizard alien took the unconscious ranger down into the hole, and disappeared.

   I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen, even as everybody on it was long gone. It was made to look so real.

   “Come on,” I said to Lenny. “Fess up. How in hottest Hell did you make that?”

   <I made nothing!> He spat. <You still don’t believe me? I have plenty more.>

   The screen flickered to another recording. Same place, but the shadows disappeared adjusted. It was closer to sundown.

   “No way,” I said with a disbelieving laugh, innately shaking my head. “It’s bullshit. Gotta hand it to ya, though, it’s pretty convincin’.”

   The lizard alien was back again. It had another body over its shoulder.

   <What will it take to convince you?> Lenny sighed.

   I didn’t answer. The body over the lizard alien’s shoulder was squat. Short and stumpy, from what I could see. His head was slump over the alien’s shoulder, and I could just barely make out certain facial features. The crooked upper lip was the giveaway. It was Private Turnbull.


End file.
